Balancing Act
by Brynn McK
Summary: Can a vampire without a soul find redemption? And can the Slayer ever really love him? Angst, drama, Scoobies, minor brain surgery, with a little humor and a few warm fuzzies along the way. Buffy/Spike, of course. COMPLETE
1. One

Disclaimer: I am not making even a shiny nickel off of this. Joss is God, I bow before his creative genius. I really do.

Rating: PG-13 or R, depending on your sensitivity to language

Feedback: Makes my day, here or at tmeyerswa@yahoo.com

Spoilers: Through _As You Were_, though we can probably assume this all takes place after Season 6--all has been resolved with the Troika, Xander and Anya, Willow and Tara, etc. (God knows how Joss will get us out of this mess, but I'm keeping a safe distance!)

Summary: Can a vampire without a soul find redemption? And can the Slayer ever really love him? Angst, drama, Scoobies, and hopefully a little humor and maybe even a few warm fuzzies along the way. Buffy/Spike, of course.

A/N: I just want to acknowledge the many very insightful and intelligent posters at the various discussion boards on which I lurk: among others, the Fan Forum B/S Spoiler Board; Tabula Rasa; All Things Philosophical on BTVS; and the ScoopMe.com Buffy discussion board. Your thoughts have really helped this story coalesce (though it's not finished yet!), and though I can't credit everyone individually (mostly 'cause I can't remember who said what), I thought I'd give a general thank-you. As a relatively new fan, I continue to be extremely impressed with the general level of conversation/analysis surrounding _Buffy_, and I continue to be grateful to Joss Whedon for giving us such a wonderful world to interpret, enjoy, and bitch about. sniff tear And I'd like to thank the Academy. OK, on to the story.

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Spike jumped as his crypt door banged open. _Buffy._ He could always tell, even when he was in the lower level and couldn't see her--she was the only one who could get quite that much speed out of the heavy door. It was a wonder she hadn't broken it yet.

"Spike!" she called. He tensed immediately. She sounded breathless. Was something wrong? It was just barely dusk, too early for nasties… He started towards the ladder, but before he got even halfway there, she was already at the opening, wearing a smile so big he almost didn't recognize her. He relaxed, only to tense again immediately as she dispensed with the ladder entirely, jumped straight through the opening, dropped into a graceful roll as she hit the ground, sprang lightly to her feet and threw her arms around him. He froze, trying to ignore the wave of pleasure and pain that knifed through him. She hadn't touched him like that since… since Captain Cardboard's little visit. The night she'd destroyed his crypt, and had very nearly destroyed him. He had no idea of how to react, as the feel of her body pressed against his sent his brain cavorting along all sorts of interesting pathways…

She was blissfully unaware, as she pulled away and brandished a piece of paper at him. "You were right!"

All right. Hugging him was one thing--saying he was right, that was just the last straw. He grabbed both of her shoulders, forced her to look at him. "Slayer, have you gone completely starkers?"

She laughed, and shoved the piece of paper into his hand. The seal at the bottom caught his eye--the Council of Watchers' official symbol. He raised an eyebrow at her. He was beginning to get an inkling of what this might be about. After all, it was he who had suggested it to her, not more than a month ago…

__

Spike looked up from his cards as he heard the sound of the key in the lock. "Sis is home, time for dinner," he told Dawn, tossing his cards on the table. She pouted.

"You're just saying that 'cause I'm winning. When you're winning, you always say that dinner can wait."

He shrugged unrepentantly. "My prerogative. I'm older."

She tossed her hair. "Yeah. Way older." But she was smiling as she greeted her sister with a kiss on the cheek. "Welcome home, working lady. What's to eat? More Doublemeat goodness?"

Buffy mustered up a tired smile. God, her feet were killing her, her back was screaming, and she felt filthy from head to toe. But ever since Dawn had pointed out their Doublemeat-centric diet, she'd been trying to work on a little variety. So she'd taken the time for an extra stop on the way home. "Nope." She held out a plastic bag for her sister. "Chinese tonight. Veggies and everything."

"Mmm." Dawn snatched the bag eagerly, inhaling deeply. "I'll get plates. Spike, you want some?"

Spike rose, stretching. "No thanks, Bit. I've got a full fridge at home." Dawn wrinkled her nose, more because it was expected than because of any real gross-out factor, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Buffy sank to the couch with a groan, telling herself it wouldn't hurt to relax for a few minutes before she headed out to patrol. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

"Rough night?" Spike asked quietly.

Buffy's eyes snapped back open, and she realized that the vampire was staring at her with that penetrating mixture of sorrow and concern in his eyes that always made her heart beat a little faster. She'd been true to her word since Riley left, and the sexcapades between her and Spike had come to an abrupt end. They'd reached a kind of tentative truce since then, sparring together, sometimes patrolling together, until she finally agreed that with Willow unable to use magic, Spike was the most likely of their group to be able to keep Dawn out of trouble while Buffy was at work. She had to admit, it was a relief, knowing there was someone around who could protect Dawn from teenage boys or any other demons who might want to harass her. Still, she hadn't yet gotten used to coming home and finding him there, and when he looked at her like he was doing right now, it made her wonder just how safe the whole situation was.

She shrugged to cover her confusion. "Just another mind-numbing night at the DMP. I'll be fine. Just need to give the feet a rest for a minute. Right now they're yelling at me so loud I'm sure the vamps could hear me a mile away."

He watched her, clenching his jaw with the effort of resisting the urge to go to her, to massage those aches away. He began to pace the room restlessly. "This is bloody ridiculous."

"What?" She was startled at the intensity of his voice.

"You. Flipping burgers half the night, fighting nasties till the wee hours, getting up early to make sure Dawn gets off to school. It's ridiculous."

She sighed, frustrated. "You don't have to tell me, Spike. I'm living it. I just don't know what else to do. We've got to pay the mortgage, and it's not like Slayers get vacation and dental benefits."

He stopped suddenly, staring at her like she'd just said something incredibly profound.

"What?" she repeated, uncomfortable.

"Giles got paid, didn't he? For being your Watcher?"

"Huh? Yeah, Giles got paid. So?"

He rolled his eyes impatiently. "So? Watchers get paid, but Slayers don't?"

Buffy's brow furrowed as she thought about that. "Yeah. Why is that?"

"Probably because most Slayers die before they're kicked out on their own to support themselves," Spike replied with a shrug.

She snorted. "Thanks for that_ warm and fuzzy image."_

He waved a hand, dismissing it. "C'mon, Slayer, we both know the clock's ticking in your line of work. That's not the point. Point is, you shouldn't have to be doing this. Slaying's your job. All of this other shite is just getting in the way. You had the Council of Wankers by the short hairs not too long ago. Who's to say you can't do it again?"

She was staring at him, open-mouthed. She wanted to protest, he could tell, but he could also see she was tempted. He grinned. He was right, he knew it--it just might take her a little longer to see it…

It seemed she had, in fact, seen it. He studied the sheet of nancy-boy stationery, skimming through the bullshit to see if they actually had a point somewhere. Ah, there it was: _"Due to the unusual duration and exceptional quality of your work with us, we are pleased to inform you that we will be able to grant your request in the form of an annual stipend in the amount of $35,000 to be paid in monthly installments of $2,900."_

He glanced up at Buffy again, who was dancing around his crypt, laughing like a maniac.

"How way cool is that?" she squealed. "`Due to the unusual duration and exceptional quality of your work.' They're paying me for _not dying_. Well, not permanently, anyway," she amended. She threw herself into a chair--one of the few pieces of furniture he'd bothered with after his redecoration-by-grenade--and sighed happily. "No more Doublemeat three meals a day, no more grease smell, no more zoned-out employees, no more stupid customers, no more life-sucking Doublemeat double-shifts… More playin' and more slayin', starting tonight."

It was as if a light had come on inside her--he'd almost forgotten what it looked like. He couldn't help smiling. "Congratulations."

"It's like being let out of prison or something. Thank you, Spike." She bounced up again, and let the momentum carry her towards him, flinging herself at him in a heartfelt, Slayer-strength hug. This time he got it together enough to return the embrace--he'd obeyed her unspoken request, hadn't touched her except in sparring since she'd told him it was over, but this time she'd started it, and he wasn't a sodding saint, after all.

Afterwards, he would never be able to figure out exactly how their mouths got entangled, or how the pleasant warmth turned to scorching heat in an instant. But suddenly her hands were all over him and her mouth was devouring his and her body was pressed against him so tightly he was glad he didn't have to breathe, because he'd have rather taken a stake to the heart than push her away. He could hear her heart pounding, feel the blood racing in her veins, smell her arousal--and then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. She pushed him away, breathing hard, eyes wide with shock, one hand over her mouth. Everywhere that she'd touched him, his skin was aching with the loss of her. It hurt worse than sunlight. And the look on her face was worse, twisting all the heat and exhilaration in him into a lump of cold lead in his stomach. He should've known.

"Spike, I--"

"Don't bother, luv," he cut her off roughly, turning away to pour himself a drink at the table in the corner. _Déjà vu all fucking over again_. "You've said it all before." He tore the cork out of the scotch bottle, slopped amber liquid into a glass.

"I shouldn't have--I'm sorry. I can't--"

"Can't love me. I know. I'm a thing, I'm a demon, I'm a monster, and I'm beneath you. I leave anything out?" Sarcasm helped cut through the knot in his throat.

"Spike…"

"What?" he snapped.

"I didn't come here to get into this. I came here to thank you. For helping me, and taking care of Dawn, and everything else. It's made a big difference. Made things easier."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "For you."

"What?"

"Made things easier for you, you mean. Fucking hell, Buffy, you are one of the most selfish women I've ever known." He couldn't seem to stop the words now, wasn't sure he wanted to. Damn, but she brought out the worst in him sometimes. "You wanted my touch, I gave it to you. You didn't want it, I backed off--kept my hands to myself like a sodding poof even though I wanted you so badly I thought it would drive me mad sometimes. But I did it, because you asked me to, because you said it was killing you. I played by your rules and I made nice to your little friends and I fought by your side and never _once_ did I touch you. And now, you get all caught up in the moment and feel like a bit of a snog, and once again I'm convenient for you--until you've had your fun, of course. And then you look at me like I'm some… slimy bit of demon goo you got stuck on those bloody stupid shoes of yours, and I'm supposed to feel better because _I _helped _you_?" He swept both hands across the table, sending glass and alcohol flying, a sound erupting from him that was half-growl, half shout. "Everything I've done has been for you, and I've asked for nothing in return. And in spite of everything, you still won't trust me, you still haven't bothered to find out what I really am."

She stepped close to him, eyes blazing. "We both know what you are, Spike. You're a vampire. You can't be anything else. The chip can hold you back for a little while, but a chip isn't a--"

"A soul?" He laughed derisively, disbelieving. "You think that's the be-all and the end-all, the secret to fighting the good fight and making the world safe for puppies and Christmas? A _soul_? Don't be so bloody naïve. Your little geek friend Warren has a soul, and that didn't stop him from offing his ex when she got a bit uppity. A soul didn't stop that idiot Ben from selling out your sister to Glory last summer. Just because a soul turned the Grand Poofter from Angelus into your precious Angel doesn't mean it's some magical cure for all evil. Really, pet, I know philosophy isn't your strong point, but you'd think you'd've figured that one out by now." She was too angry to speak, glaring at him in a way she hadn't in over a year. _What the hell, I can't get any deeper in it._ "Shades of gray, Slayer. You should know--you are one yourself."

That did it. He could almost see her temper snap. "Oh, so we're back to _me_ being the one that's wrong? Dirty? Tainted somehow? I went to heaven when I died, Spike. Something tells me you won't be having the same experience."

It wasn't just that she said it that stopped him cold. It was the way she said it--vicious, icy, calculating. In one second, she'd demolished everything they'd built over the past weeks.

He forced his face into an expressionless mask. "Get out." His voice was low, dangerous.

"Gladly," she hissed back. Snatching up the Council's letter, she strode towards the ladder. "I was stupid to think you could be a part of my life, in any way." She climbed up the ladder and disappeared, never once looking back.

He heard the crypt door slam. He just stood there, unable to move, too numb even for tears, feeling truly dead for the first time in as long as he could remember.

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She stayed away for nine days, unwilling to apologize first. Finally, out of some half-formed fear that he'd somehow managed to dust himself, she grumbled her way over to his crypt. But she was eight days too late. He was gone.

She never felt the tears.

TBC


	2. Two

Spike took a last drag on his smoke, flicked it to the ground to join its fellows, and immediately lit another. He hated waiting. Waiting meant thinking, and thinking meant worrying--worrying about whether Dawn was all right, about whether the operation would be successful, and about Her, no matter how hard he tried to stop. He didn't know why he was doing this, really; to prove something, he supposed, though he didn't know what or to whom. But he was tired of analyzing, tired of questioning--he was, essentially, a man of action. So he'd acted. Searched for three months, dragged the old DeSoto halfway across the country and back, drank endless shots in countless demon bars, and enjoyed beating information out of more than a few reluctant informants. It was amazing what a bloke could find, really, if he put his mind to it--even rejects from top-secret defunct government agencies. So now it had all come down to this: this alley, this night, this pack of smokes, this waiting.

The door next to him opened, and a petrified, pathetic excuse for a human male peered out at him through too-thick glasses. "He's… um… Dr. Neal is ready," he quavered, looking ready to piss himself any moment.

Spike favored him with his most dangerous smile. "Good boy," he murmured. Some tiny part of him wanted to know why he was doing this. He told it to shut the hell up. His footsteps echoed in the alley as the door swung shut behind him.

Two hours later, he had forty-nine stitches in his head, a terrified doctor writhing on the floor with a broken nose, and no trace of a headache.

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Spike heard a female cry in the distance, and smiled to himself. It was good to be home. As he swaggered along the moonlit streets of dear old Sunny-D, he could feel the blood singing to him, stronger with every human he passed. He'd barely stopped on the long drive back from Bumfuck, Wherever, so he hadn't really noticed the walking Happy Meals, but now they were everywhere, calling him. Hot, sweet, seductive siren song, and he with no one and nothing to lash him to the mast. His demon was screaming inside him—twice, he slipped into game face without intending to. It was as if the chip truly had chained him, as Dru had said, and now he was free. He'd forgotten how overwhelming it could be—the potential, the power. It was almost like the pleasure/pain/horror/exultation of being turned.

__

It tells you you're not a bad dog, she'd told him, her dark, mad eyes fixed on him in that spellbinding way she had._ But you are_. He could almost hear her voice echoing in his footsteps, like a litany: _You are. You are. You are. You are._

For the last three years, he hadn't honestly known what he was. Now, he was starting to wonder if the answer hadn't been there all the time.

Still, he had a goal in mind, and he didn't have time for an idle snack. A feral smile curved his lips as he saw that the light was on in the Magic Box, long past closing. He caught a glimpse of red hair and, not far away, the dark curls he was looking for. The smile expanded into a grin. He'd been waiting three years for this.

He hauled open the door, strode in, coat billowing, and punched Xander full in the face.

Bleeding blond hell-bitches, it felt good. And the Scoobies' reactions were priceless, as the realization slowly dawned on them that he was chip-pain-free. Surprise, panic, and dread flew across their faces in rapid succession. He almost laughed with the exhilaration of it, watching all their frantic pulses beating in their tasty little necks—and then he realized that the neck he was looking at was Dawn's. Above it, her eyes were wide and terrified and confused. And suddenly, he felt so sick he could barely stand.

And then he didn't really have much choice about the standing, as Buffy had him shoved up against the wall, stake in hand. He met her eyes, and what he saw there made his already-queasy stomach drop right into his battered boots. There was anger, of course, and confusion, but behind it all, a kind of disbelieving pain that went straight to his heart. _It hurts her? What the--_

"What the fuck's going on, Spike?" she demanded, her voice harsh with barely-concealed emotion.

"Miss me, love?" he asked quietly, smirking just a bit to cover his own confusion.

But she didn't take the bait. She was deadly serious. "Tell me what happened or I stake you right now." She hesitated for just the tiniest fraction of a second right before the word "stake," but her voice never wavered. He wondered if anyone else had noticed.

He looked her straight in the eye. "You know what happened. I found a doctor. Had a little operation. The chip's out." He grinned a little. He knew he was playing with fire, here, but it had been so long since he had been able to reach her, in any way. _You always hurt the ones you love_. "Dog's off his leash now, pet."

He could actually see the last flicker of hope die. She started to draw back the hand holding the stake, her eyes flat and lifeless. He just watched, wondering if she'd actually do it, knowing he could stop her if she tried. She was just starting her forward motion when Dawn's voice broke the silence.

"Buffy! No!"

Something warm and terrifying and indescribable bloomed in Spike's chest, but he didn't take his eyes off of Buffy. Pain flooded her eyes again, and she seemed to slump a little, like a puppet when its strings go still. "You don't know what you're talking about, Dawn. He's not… he's not the same Spike anymore. He could hurt us, hurt you. Look what he did to Xander."

Spike's eyes flickered to Harris, now back on his feet and standing protectively in front of his demon bride, blood trickling from his nose. Spike's own demon growled eagerly inside him, but this time he ignored it. "Whelp's been baiting me for years, Slayer. Can you blame me for wanting a little of my own back?"

"And you expect me to believe that's all it was?"

The power, the exhilaration, all melted away and he was suddenly tired, more tired than he'd felt in a century. Killing a Slayer had been so much easier than trying to live with one. "Believe what you want, love. If I'd wanted to kill you, I could have done it months ago. You know that." He levered himself back off the wall, pushed her away. She didn't resist, but she still had the stake clutched in her hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Xander tense. He chuckled bitterly. "Well, thanks so much for the wonderful welcome home party, but I'm knackered. Best be getting home now. Lovely to see you all." He turned and headed for the door, senses on the alert in case anyone got any clever ideas about pointy bits of wood. He was just stepping out onto the street when he heard footsteps chasing him. He whirled, ready to defend himself, and was surprised to see Dawn's silhouette in the doorway.

"It's just me," she said quickly.

"What is it, Dawn?" He didn't want to be short with her, but he had to get out of there.

"Just…" He could see her brow furrow, even in the darkness. "Don't leave town again, OK?"

"May not have a choice, platelet." Her face fell. He sighed. "I'll try. Now get back inside." He turned without waiting for a response, and set off for his crypt. With any luck, it would still be unoccupied.

---------------------------------

Buffy barely had time to process the fact that Dawn was chasing after Spike before her sister was back, shutting the door carefully behind her. Buffy's brain was spinning, her heart was pounding, she could barely breathe.

"Um…" Xander raised a hand. "Can this be the part where I wake up and say oh thank God it was all a horrible dream?"

"Yes, and then we can have bad-dream sex," Anya added, on the edge of panic. "I like that plan."

Willow was watching her best friend, who was staring glassily at a spot on the floor. "Buffy? You OK?" she asked quietly.

Buffy's eyes darted up to meet Willow's. "He came back."

"Yeah," Xander broke in before Willow could respond. "In a Terminator kinda way."

Dawn snorted. "Oh, come on. It's not like he came in here with a machine gun and started mowing us all down. He didn't even bite anyone. All he did was hit you. Not so bad on the Sunnydale Scale of Vampire Violence."

"Spoken like someone who's not bleeding," Xander shot back, a little more harshly than he'd intended.

"Maybe you should have been nicer to him the past few years," Anya suggested.

"You too?!" Xander rounded on her, incredulous. "Geez, Ahn! What do I have to do to get a little sympathy around here? Like you've been all--"

"Guys." Buffy's voice brought them all up short. They looked at her, standing pale but resolute in the middle of the room, and immediately felt guilty.

"Sorry, Buff," Xander muttered, as Anya and Dawn mumbled their own apologies. After a brief silence, Tara spoke up hesitantly.

"So he got the chip out. Does that mean he's evil again?"

"With Spike, it's kind of hard to tell the difference," Xander remarked wryly, but Buffy shook her head.

"He's different." Hadn't they felt it? The power, the danger, radiating off of him? "I don't know what it means, but he's not the same Spike who left here a few months ago."

There was another uncomfortable silence. Finally, Willow wrinkled her nose. "But we can't just… stake him. I mean, it's _Spike_. He's _helped_ us."

"Stake him?" Dawn rushed to her sister's side, panicked, and grabbed her arm. "Buffy, you can't."

"Yeah, he spent some time helping us," Xander put in. "But he also spent three years trying to kill us. And a hundred or so years before that killing God knows how many people. Kind of evens things out, don't you think? I mean, when Angel went bad, we all knew what we had to do there." He saw the flicker of anguish in Buffy's eyes at the mention of Angel's name in this context, and he hated himself for putting it there. But he knew it had to be said. He sometimes wondered how he got designated as Guy Who Gets to Say Things No One Else Wants To.

Dawn was glaring at him. "It's totally different. Angel was killing people. Spike hasn't hurt anyone."

"Yet." Buffy's voice was barely above a whisper, but they all heard her as clearly as if she'd shouted. _Xander's right_, she thought distantly. It _was_ like a nightmare. A recurring one, in her case. She realized Dawn was staring at her, shocked.

"Buffy. Spike wouldn't--"

And suddenly, everything that had been building up inside of her poured out like an avalanche. "He _has_, Dawn. He's probably lost count of the number of people he's killed--did you think he just makes up those stories he tells you? So he helped us for a while. He's different now, and I don't know what that means, but I can tell you that there is nothing, _nothing_ in this world that hurts worse than watching someone you care about kill other people you care about, knowing you have to stop him but hoping that somehow you can save him, even though you know it's impossible. That's what it would be like for you, Dawn. Knowing people had died because you weren't strong enough to accept that the person you loved just wasn't there anymore. Do you think I want that for you? Do you think I'd let that happen to you?" She was almost shouting by the end, and tears were streaming down Dawn's cheeks.

"So you'd kill him?" Dawn shouted back through her sobs. "After all he's done for you, you'd kill him just because you're not sure?"

"Hey, hey." Willow interceded, placing a comforting hand on each girl's shoulder. "You guys are on the same side, remember?" Dawn shrugged the hand off, and turned her back on her sister and Willow, shoulders heaving. Buffy realized her own cheeks were wet, and she scrubbed at them hastily with the back of her hand.

"Um…" Tara began nervously, twisting a piece of hair around her finger, "I know it's not really my place, but…"

Buffy looked over at her, grateful for the distraction. "Of course it is, Tara."

Tara hitched a shoulder. "It's just that… I mean, I didn't know him before. And I didn't know Angel. But if there's even a chance that Spike's still on our side, shouldn't we… hold off on the staking? For tonight, anyway. I mean, it's not like there are so many people helping us that we can afford to go killing them off, you know?" An idea struck her. "We could, um, set up a watch. Keep an eye on him, see if he does anything suspicious. Might give us a better idea of what he's planning."

Willow smiled gratefully at her lover, trying to muster as much enthusiasm as possible. "Now you're talkin'! Stake_out_, instead of stak_ing_." She looked at Buffy hopefully. "It'll buy us a little time, anyway."

Buffy sighed, considering, but then nodded, to Willow's immense relief. "OK. But I'm taking the watch. And if he goes out for so much as a nibble, I'll…" she trailed off, suddenly unable to finish. _What the hell?_ she thought. _This is Spike, not Angel. Why does it feel so much the same?_ She frowned.

"He won't," Dawn said suddenly, glaring at her again. Buffy blinked, confused.

"Huh?"

"He won't nibble. I know him. And you should, too." And with a toss of her hair, she stormed out.

"I'll go with her," Xander volunteered quickly, seeing Buffy torn between beginning her watch and making sure Dawn got home safely. "She can stay with us tonight." Anya nodded agreement.

"Thanks, guys," Buffy called after them, as they headed after Dawn. The door swung shut, bell tinkling cheerfully, and Buffy sighed again.

"You sure you'll be all right?" Willow asked. Buffy nodded.

"I always am." Then, after a moment, she laughed, a short, humorless noise.

"What?" Tara had moved over to her lover, preparing to leave, and now they were both staring quizzically at Buffy.

"It's just…" She laughed again, only this time it came out more like a sob. "For a second there, when he first walked in… I was happy to see him." She was afraid to see their response, so she just tucked her head and slipped out the door, leaving two confused and saddened witches in her wake.

TBC


	3. Three

Just a quick A/N to say thank you to all of you who've left such encouraging reviews! I really appreciate the feedback. You all rock.

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Apparently, the last-minute protection spell had worked—his crypt was still empty, the shattered remains of bottles and glasses still scattered about, as he'd left them.   
_Everything that was broken when I left is still broken when I come back… funny how that works._

He sighed. Hadn't exactly been the triumphal return he'd imagined. He'd fantasized a fair amount on the way home, alternately that they'd finally have a knock-down drag-out and one of them would kill the other, or that she'd have been lost without him, and throw herself at his feet begging forgiveness. Nowhere in any of his imagined scenarios had she looked at him with quite that combination of pain and anger and disappointment. And nowhere had the sight of Dawn's scared and trusting face made him want to promise her he'd never drink another drop of human blood.

He began half-heartedly picking up the shards of glass, until the memory of the accusation in Buffy's eyes had him hurling the handful back against the wall in fury. _Bitch. Always assuming the worst._ He kicked the table for good measure, reflecting absently that he'd gone through quite a lot of furniture since he'd met the little blonde bint. Occupational hazard, he supposed.

Suddenly, he froze, head lifted, senses on full alert. After a moment, he began to laugh mirthlessly. He climbed the ladder, walked slowly out into the moonlit cemetery. Sure enough, there she was--all cozied up in a tree, of all places. Watching him steadily, her face blank, a stake in her hand. He stopped underneath the tree and smirked up at her.

"Well, now. How's this for a role reversal? You wanted to be near me, pet, you could've just asked."

As soon as she'd seen him step out of the crypt, all her anger and betrayal had come flooding back. She glared at him. "I don't trust you."

"Now there's a shocking bit of news." He rolled his eyes, stuck his thumbs in his pockets.

"What the hell was that all about today?" 

Apparently, she was once again in no mood for games. She was deathly, coldly serious, and that Spike could have handled, but the tiny sliver of hurt in her voice pulled at him against his will. He wanted to make it better, and hated himself for being so whipped over this silly, self-righteous chit. 

He didn't know whether to be angry or apologetic, so he tried to shoot for something in between. "It was about not being the whipping boy anymore," he told her seriously. "Things are different now."

"Yeah, I noticed that right about the time you were thinking about sucking the life out of the people I love."

He threw his hands up in the air. "There you go again, always accusing me--`This is one of your stupid schemes, Spike, you're a worthless thing, Spike, I can't trust you, Spike.' Bloody hell, Slayer, doesn't that sodding high horse of yours ever get tired?"

She pinned him with eyes, refusing to be baited. "Spike. I've seen enough hungry vampires to know one when I see one. And tonight, you looked at my friends and you saw dinner. Don't try to deny it."

She had him there, and the disappointment in her eyes made him feel like a scolded child. "Fine. I thought about it, all right? For a moment. I'm a vampire. I'm supposed to kill, to feed. You don't know what it's like, the way the blood calls to you, the way you can hear it rushing through the veins, practically taste it on your tongue…" He saw the revulsion on her face, but plowed ahead anyway. He wanted her to understand. "It's my nature, and it's stronger than you can possibly imagine, little girl."

Her smile was twisted. "Preaching to the choir, here, Mr. Melodrama."

He growled, frustrated. "But I _didn't_. I had my opportunity--could've drained at least one of them dry before you had a chance to stop me. But I didn't. I walked away, and all that idiot bricklayer got was a little tap on the nose. Least he deserved, if you ask me."

A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows. "So why didn't you?"

He wanted to lie, wanted to tell her that punching Xander had been only the first step in an intricate Big Evil Plot that would leave her begging for mercy. He wanted to retain some shred of dignity, some semblance of power. But something about her just stripped away all his defenses. So he gave her the truth. "I saw Dawn," he answered quietly. "I saw Dawn, and I couldn't do it."

She was silent for a moment. Finally, softly, "And what if Dawn hadn't been there?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if Dawn hadn't been there? Would you have hurt one of them?"

He sensed that there was quite a bit hanging in the balance here, and again, he was tempted to lie--tell her what she wanted to hear. But he was starting to figure out that just as much as he wanted all of her, he needed her to want all of him. Man, demon, the whole package. He shrugged, forced himself to speak. "Maybe. I don't know." Four words, and she might never touch him again.

__

What was I expecting? But it hurt anyway. She felt her eyes fill and overflow. "Then I can't trust you."

Even though he'd been expecting it, it still cut through him like a knife. He growled again, slammed his fist into the tree in frustration. "Dammit, Buffy! Don't I at least get points for good intentions?"

She smiled a little, the moonlight glinting off the tear-tracks on her cheeks. "I don't give out the points, Spike. Am I supposed to be grateful to you for deciding not to kill my friends? I guess I am, sort of, which just goes to show you I've been living on the Hellmouth _way_ too long. So you chose that today. But you said the demon's powerful, it's pulling at you. Tomorrow, you might not even have a choice. Tomorrow, Dawn may not be there to stop you. Evil's an instinct for a vampire—how do I know it won't take over? And since I'm the one who's gonna have to stake you if that happens, you'll understand if _points_ don't mean all that much to me."

He thought about that for a moment, then chuckled a bit. "So what we've got here is your basic boy-meets-girl, boy-falls-for-girl, girl-thinks-boy-might-turn-into-a-ruthless-killing-machine-and-she'll-have-to-stake-him kind of thing?"

That got a reluctant laugh. "Pretty much."

A thought occurred to him. "So, if my instinct is to be evil, and you think I chose differently today, does that mean you're admitting that I'm not _completely_ evil?" He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Being evil was fun. Then again, she'd used it as an excuse to stomp all over him for the past three years, so…

She rolled her eyes with a half-groan, half-laugh. "I can't believe we're having this conversation. The Slayer is supposed to _kill_ vamps, not Psych 101 them." He stayed quiet, waiting for her answer. "Just because you've _done_ good doesn't mean you _are_ good."

He snorted. "Wouldn't want to be good. But…" He remembered what he'd told Dawn, that night they were hiding from Glory. "I'm OK, aren't I?"

"Sometimes. It's just… I mean…" She'd never really spent a lot of time pondering the nature of good and evil; she was more of a slay-first, ponder-later kinda girl. She couldn't believe she was doing it in a cemetery in the middle of the night, for the benefit of her vampire ex-lover who might or might not kill everyone she loved tomorrow. Definitely high marks for weirdness, even in her life. She tried to work through it anyway. "I guess it's about instinct. Something you do without thinking about it. Without expecting anything in return."

He couldn't believe he was discussing philosophy, period, much less with the Slayer, in the middle of a perfectly good night for hunting, while she was guarding him just in case she had to stake him. Still, it was as close to a civilized conversation as they were likely to get at this point. Besides, as long as they were chatting, maybe it'd distract her from the stake, so he figured he'd give it a go. "C'mon, Slayer. You really think anyone does good just for the sake of it?"

"I do," she replied, just a touch defensively.

"Oh, please," he scoffed, pulling a pack of smokes out of his pocket and digging for his lighter. The lighter clicked open and shut, and he took a long drag. "You've saved the world a few times, sure, but you can't tell me you didn't get anything from it yourself. Satisfaction of a job well done and all. As much as you bitch about your sacred duty, you sure get miserable when you're not out doing it. Makes you feel good to know you're making a difference, doesn't it?"

That threw her, he could tell. "Yeah, but… I do it 'cause it's right. Everything _you_ do, you do for selfish reasons--because it'll get you money, or power, or me, or whatever."

He shrugged. "What's so bad about bein' selfish? My selfishness has saved your lovely skin a time or two, pet. And I'd say that counts as a point for the good guys." He grinned at her triumphantly. He was better at this than he'd thought.

She was starting to get frustrated. "So if the result is good, it doesn't matter why you did it? That doesn't make sense."

"Turn it around," he suggested, through his cig. "When you thought you'd killed that girl, you thought you'd done it by accident. But you still wanted to turn yourself in. Didn't matter to you that you hadn't meant to. The result mattered."

She thought about that for a minute. It had been so long since she'd questioned… anything, really. She'd had her hands full just reacting. "It's just… it's different. I protect people because I want to. You protect people because you want to get in my pants."

_That _stung, and wiped the grin right off his face. "I've fought by your side because I love you, Buffy. If all I wanted was a quick shag, I could've gotten that a hell of a lot easier. I've tried to change for you, and all you do is throw it back in my face. If it was just about the sex, I could have skipped town the moment you decided to make your great heroic sacrifice last summer. Could have left your friends to fend for themselves, and odds are one or more of them would be dead without me. But I didn't, because I'd made you a promise. You treated me like a man, and I wanted to act like one." He glared up at her, seething. _Self-righteous more-Chosen-than-thou vamp-hating close-minded--_

"Thanks."

He blinked, interior tirade totally derailed. He was absolutely certain he was hearing things, because he thought he'd just heard her thank him. "Sorry?"

She cleared her throat. "I said thanks. I never got the chance to thank you for that."

He blinked again, and she almost giggled, watching the way he was floundering around, totally at a loss. "Uh… well… I… I mean…" He trailed off. "What are you playing at, Slayer?" He squinted up at her suspiciously.

The wave of sadness caught her completely off-guard. She sighed. "Am I such a horrible bitch that you can't even accept a thank-you?"

_Hmmm… So many answers to that question…_ For once in his unlife, he decided to take the gentlemanly route. "'Course not."

She smiled. "Liar."

He shrugged, unable to hold back a grin. "Well…" He let it hang. "You're welcome, anyway."

They smiled at each other for a second, and then she sighed again, shaking her head. "See, there's this, and then there's… A few hours ago, you were a heartless demon who wanted to kill my friends. How can all of this be you?"

His mouth quirked wryly. "Still working on that one myself, luv."

"How do I know you aren't going to go all demon-y again tomorrow?"

He shrugged. "You don't. I can't make you any guarantees, Buffy. The demon's strong. It's all about strength, all about power. It's the same for you, I expect—your power is strongest in darkness, and death is your duty. Every night, you kill, and with every death, the darkness pulls at you. Even Drac, nancy-boy poser that he is, got that bit right. You've resisted it so far. Your friend Faith didn't. And every day, every night, it's a new struggle."

Her eyes were bright with tears again. "I can't… People _died_ because of me, Spike. Because I gave Angel the benefit of the doubt. Because I wanted to believe that he could be good again." It was as close as she could come to an explanation.

He considered it, tried to shove down his own hurt and resentment and see it from her side. Finally, "Fair enough. You hero types have to do your thing. Guess we'll just have to agree to disagree." He blew unnecessary breath out between his teeth, flicked his cigarette to the ground, ran a hand through his hair. "You don't have to stay in the damned tree all night, though. Go home, get some rest. I promise, I'm too bloody tired to even _plan_ any apocalypses tonight, much less actually _start_ one."

He thought she might have been tempted to smile, but her face remained blank. "I'll be all right here."

He sighed, knowing it was useless to argue with her. "Fine. Suit yourself. I think I've got an extra blanket lying around--I'll leave it outside the door, in case you get cold." Damned if she wasn't turning him into the biggest poof since Peaches. Maybe that was a new technique in vampire slaying--turning them into such sad wankers that they had to stake themselves just to keep a shred of self-respect.

Still, it got more of a reaction than he'd expected. For half a second, he saw fresh pain in her eyes, then the mask dropped down again. But her voice was hoarse. "Thanks."

He shook his head, turned to go. "'Night, Slayer."

"'Night, Spike."

Back in his crypt, he settled in on his bed, tried in vain to sleep. Outside, she settled in the tree, tried in vain to hate him. In the end, neither one of them was successful. They stayed wakeful, feeling each other's presence, a comfort and a torture at the same time. And as soon as the sun rose, she was gone.

TBC


	4. Four

__

Spike was dreaming of blood, of freedom, of carnage. He was the Scourge of Europe again, and humans trembled before him. The mob surrounded him, pressing on him, and every nerve ending was alive with exultation as he punched, kicked, scratched, and--when he was lucky--bit his way through the crowd. He ducked into an alley, leaned against the wall, laughing as he tried to figure out his next move. He heard a swish of long skirts, glanced over to see a girl hurrying by, shielding her face from the bright light of the intermittent explosions. He grinned, grabbed her without thinking, sank his fangs deep into her neck. The blood flowed into him, filling his veins with warm, borrowed life, like electricity shooting all over his body…

"Spike." He looked up, growling, and saw Dawn standing in the alley in front of him, shock and betrayal in every line of her innocent face. She was staring at the still body of the girl in his arms. He looked down and suddenly recognized the slack face--Dawn's friend, from the night they had snuck out for a date with two teenage vamps. Blood trickled sluggishly from the holes in her neck. She was already dead. He looked desperately back at Dawn, saw the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Dawn, I didn't know, I couldn't--" he babbled desperately.

"Spike." She was just staring at him, eyes glassy. He wanted to run, to die, anything to make the pain stop. But he couldn't move. And he couldn't fix it for her.

"Spike." He felt a hand on his arm, and shot bolt upright in bed, stomach churning. Next to him, Dawn jumped back a little, eyes wide and hands held defensively in front of her. He tried to shake off the dream, get it together enough to calm her.

"Dawn," he managed.

"You-you're a heavy sleeper," she said, a little nervously. Even so, she hadn't moved more than a foot or so away from him. _She trusts me_, he thought, feeling sick again.

"Uh, Spike?" She looked uncomfortable, gestured vaguely at her face. "You're… kinda…" He realized he was in game face, a holdover from the dream.

"Sorry," he told her a little hoarsely, feeling his teeth retract.

"No big," she answered quickly. "Just wondered if you knew." She looked at him more closely. "Are you OK?" she asked, concern overriding fear.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Uh, yeah… just…" He noticed the rucksack dangling from her arm. "School out already?"

She looked away. "Uh… well… not in the sense that classes are, in the strictest definition, over, but…" she hedged.

He raised an eyebrow at her, glad to be back on somewhat familiar ground. "Then you're here and not there because…?"

"I wanted to see you. And I didn't think Buffy'd exactly be doing the Dance of Parental Consent about that one, so… I didn't have much choice. I think she'll sleep as long as she thinks I'm at school." She saw the look on his face, and rushed on, "I'm getting really good grades now, and I came at lunchtime so I'll only miss one class. If you give me a break now, you can save that valuable lecture for another time." She looked at him hopefully.

He relented. "All right. What's on your mind, Niblet?"

She shrugged, letting the rucksack slide to the ground. "Just wanted to see how you were doing."

Since he really didn't know how to answer that--_well, I seem to have reawakened my inner demon, and I'm not sure if I should go with that or not, and it turns out that even after three months away, I'm still love's bitch, but thanks for asking and how are you?_--he went with the stock response. "Been better, been worse. You? Been tearing up the town while I've been away?"

She giggled a little and rolled her eyes, sitting tentatively on the edge of the bed. "As if. Buffy's still in complete Overprotective Mode. No more Doublemeat Palace means more time to breathe down Dawn's neck. She's always, like, `Have you done your homework? How are your grades? You didn't talk to any boys, did you? Clean your room. Eat three more bites of vegetables before dessert.' It's like she's channeling Mom or something." Spike was pleased to see that there was only a slight shadow of grief on her face when she mentioned Joyce. "Anyway," Dawn continued, "I guess it's better that she ditched the fast food lifestyle. We're getting along much better now." She smiled at him. "So I guess I should thank you for that." Then the smile faded. "I would've thanked you before, but…"

He wasn't quite sure how to respond. After a short silence, Dawn asked, "Why'd you leave, anyway?" She tried to make it sound casual, but her fingers were unconsciously twisting the sheets into tiny knots.

Again, a bigger question than he really wanted to deal with right now. Still, he'd always prided himself on giving Dawn straight answers when he could. "I just had to get away, I s'pose. Clear my head." He smiled, a little wryly. "Literally."

There was that little crease between her eyebrows again. "Because of Buffy?"

_That_ he hadn't been expecting. "Well… ah…" he stammered. "What do you know about me and Buffy?" he demanded finally, stalling for time.

"Please," she scoffed. "Like I'm blind or something. I live with her, remember? I see the way you guys look at each other. I watch TV, I know what sexual tension looks like."

He almost choked, and Dawn giggled again, obviously vastly amused at his shock. After a moment or two of wordless spluttering, he decided it would be safest to just admit it, and move on to a different topic. As quickly as possible. _Not my job to teach her about the birds and the sodding bees, anyway_. He cleared his throat. "All right. So there is… or there was… something between me and Buffy."

"And you guys had a fight?"

_When are we _not_ fighting?_ "Yeah, something like that. How'd you know?"

She shrugged. "When she came back after she went to tell you about the Council's letter, she was all mad, and she went into the training room and didn't come out for like three hours. They had to buy a new punching bag afterwards." She was quiet for a moment, as if she was debating something, then she went on, quietly. "When you didn't come by after a few days, she went to look for you. When she came back, I could tell she'd been crying. But I don't think she even knew it." She looked at him. "It was bad, for awhile there. She sort of shut down again. Kinda like when Angel and Riley left, only worse, 'cause she didn't want anyone to know what was bothering her. We… we missed you."

Great. He was now in the same elite group as the Souled One and Captain Cardboard. Just bloody wonderful. "Didn't mean to hurt you, pet," he muttered, feeling awkward.

"I know." She paused, then, "Do you feel different?"

"You mean without the chip?" She nodded. _Never one for the easy questions_, he remembered.. "Yeah."

She frowned. "You don't really seem different. Buffy says you are, though."

"Vampire/Slayer thing, I think."

"But… you wouldn't…" She watched him, a hint of wariness in her eyes. She couldn't finish the question. He remembered his dream, remembered the look on her face, remembered the way she'd defended him the day before. The answer was easy.

"Dawn. I'd sacrifice the world to save you." _Or her_, he added silently, but he wasn't ready to think about that yet.

She grinned hugely, and it made him think of how sunlight had felt, when he was human. "I knew it." She threw her arms around his neck, hugged tight. Something tore loose inside his chest. He wondered if this was what Buffy had been like, before the baggage, before the losses, before her Sacred Duty. No one had ever loved him like this--without pain, without demands.

It terrified him. 

She trusted him. Even last night, she had trusted him, even when he'd been thinking about snacking on people she loved. Much as he hated to compare himself in any way to the Great Poof, he knew that he held her fragile world-view in his hands as surely as Angel had held Buffy's. Taking care of Dru had been one thing; this was entirely different. It was difficult enough just trying to keep her alive--now he was supposed to set an example for her, too? For a bloke who'd spent over a century trying to avoid responsibility whenever possible, it was a lot to swallow. 

"I'm glad you're back," she whispered in his ear, blissfully unaware of his inner turmoil.

He patted her back, trying to quell the panic. "Thanks," he mumbled.

Dawn sat back, folded her hands in a businesslike manner. "So. Buffy won't believe you're not going to murder us all in our beds."

The bluntness of it startled a laugh out of him. "S'pose that's about the size of it, yeah," he replied, grateful for the change of subject.

"Makes sense, I guess. She does have sort of a history with that kind of thing. You want my advice?"

Again, he had to laugh. "Dawn, I've been around for a hundred bloody years. Don't think I'll be taking romantic advice from a fifteen-year-old who can't tell the difference between a teenage boy and a vampire."

"OK, first of all, I didn't say it was romantic advice. Second of all, I _am_ the Key, even if I don't open anything anymore, so I'm, like, _way_ older than you. Third of all, you were with the same woman for all that time, so I don't think you have much more experience than I do."

"Hey!" There was only so much a man's ego could take.

"Well, it's true. Besides, I know my sister." She raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to disagree.

He sighed, rested his head back against the headboard, scrubbing a hand over his face. This had to be a new low. "All right, Doctor Dawn," he growled. "What's your expert advice?"

She paused, for dramatic effect. Then, solemnly, "Be patient. And don't kill anyone."

"_That's_ your advice?" he exploded. "_That's_ the wisdom of thousands of years?" She was laughing. He waved a hand at her. "Aren't you supposed to be off learning how to be a conformist little yes-woman?"

She reached for the rucksack, still laughing. "Yeah, I better go."

"Right, then. Bugger off and let me get some sleep."

She grinned at him. "I missed you."

He managed to grin back, despite the sudden uneasiness in his stomach. "Missed you, too, platelet. Now go on."

"I'll be back when I can," she told him.

He nodded, and watched her go, telling himself over and over that it had only been a dream.

-------------------------

It couldn't have been more than a couple of hours later when he was awakened again, this time by a voice calling down from the upper level.

"Spike?" It was Red, and she sounded nervous. Now _this_ was an unexpected turn of events. _I mention a welcome-home party, I get a bleeding parade_. "Spike, are you here?"

"Didn't anyone ever tell you lot that vampires _sleep _during the day?" he grumbled, but it was more for show than anything else. "Come right in, make yourself at home," he hollered, with an edge of sarcasm.

"Uh…" He could hear her footsteps as she moved across the floor and back. "I think I'll stay up here, thanks."

Was she afraid of him? "Well, wouldn't want you to trouble yourself," he called up to her, but he was grinning. He rolled out of bed and made his way to the ladder. As his head cleared the floor, he could see her standing in the open doorway, surrounded by protective sunlight. He planted both feet on the floor, careful to stay out of range of the sun, and crossed his arms, smirking.

"Don't want to come into the vampire's lair, eh pet?"

"Not so much," she replied, watching him carefully. "I'm not big with the self-defense techniques these days."

His smirk widened. "'Bout time I got some respect around here. Well, what can I do for you, Sabrina?"

She jerked her head towards the chair that was set up in front of the telly. There was a small paper bag resting on the arm. "I… I stopped at the butcher's shop. Thought you might be hungry, so I brought you some blood, so you wouldn't, you know…"

"Be tempted to suck it out of anyone?"

"I wouldn't have put it that way, exactly, but… yeah." He could feel her eyes on him as he crossed to the bag, reached in and drew out the container. He pulled back the lid, took a sip.

"Thanks, Red. So, did you just drop by to deliver the O-Neg?"

"No." She took a deep breath. "I talked to Buffy a little bit this morning, after she got back."

"Ah. And did she tell you how I'd returned to my wicked ways? Once an evil, soulless thing, always an evil, soulless thing?"

"No. But she did mention that you were thinking about… hurting us last night."

He rolled his eyes. "She would."

"She also told me why you decided not to." She was looking at him intently.

He set down the blood, met her eyes squarely. "Yeah. So?"

"So… I think I might understand what you're dealing with."

He snorted. "You think a little dabbling in the black arts compares to being a vampire? Don't flatter yourself, Red."

He was a little surprised when she didn't back down, even a little bit. Girl'd picked up some spine since he'd last seen her. "I think you've got a real chance here, Spike. You get to make a choice no vampire has ever been able to make before. But if you're not interested in hearing me out, then…" She turned, started back out into the light.

Oh, fucking hell. "Wait." She turned, raised an eyebrow at him. He shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Already got some sage advice today. Might as well hear yours."

She smiled a little, pleased with herself. "OK. I'm not saying that getting addicted to magic is the same as becoming a vampire. But I did some thinking about it today, and it seems like we've actually got some stuff in common here." She ignored his eye-roll, barreling on. "I was a total geek in high school. I mean, you saw me then. I was nothing. Even when I met Buffy, and I finally felt like I was part of something important, I still couldn't do much--mostly, Xander and I just got into trouble that Buffy had to get us out of. I hated it. And when I started getting into the Wicca stuff, it was like I'd finally discovered a way I could… be somebody." She wasn't really looking at him anymore; it seemed like she'd almost forgotten he was there. He had to admit, the whole story sounded uncomfortably familiar. Though he'd rather have gone sunbathing than tell _her_ that. She was still talking, oblivious. "Then I met Tara, and she thought I was all Miss Big Power Girl, and I was the only one who could get to Glory, and then I brought Buffy back… It was like a big spiral, and before I knew it I felt like I could do anything. God, I even threatened Giles. I just… totally lost perspective." Her eyes snapped back into focus, fixed on him. "I wasn't really addicted to the magic. Magic is neutral--I'm sure you know that. I was addicted to the power."

For once, he couldn't come up with a clever rejoinder. "And you think that's my problem?"

She shrugged. "I don't know you as well as Buffy does_." She thinks Buffy knows me?_ he wondered silently, feeling a strange twist in his gut. "But I think you like being a vampire because it made you something. It gave you power. The chip took it away again, for a while. And now that it's gone, you're tempted again. You want to go back to being the Big Bad. You want to be strong." Her eyes seemed to be boring into him. "You want to be the big tough guy, Spike? Fight it. You did it for three years--if it was something that just took over and controlled you, you would've just kept on feeding, no matter how much it hurt, until the chip killed you. You've got a choice. In fact, you're lucky compared to me. I had to give up magic altogether, to go back to just being plain old Willow Rosenberg. You get to keep the power. You just have to learn to… make it go somewhere else."

He cocked his head at her. She'd gotten to him, in spite of himself. "Why are you doing this?"

"'Cause you helped us all summer, even though Buffy was gone. I don't like the thought of staking someone who's saved my patootie more than once." He smiled before he could stop himself. She smiled back. "And because of Dawn, and because I think you and Buffy could be a good team, if you could stop pushing each other's buttons for ten seconds and actually work together." Then she wrinkled her nose a little, grinning, and for a second she was the adorable, cheerful innocent again, the one who'd told him they could "try again later" after he'd discovered he couldn't bite her. "Besides, I kinda like you."

He couldn't help laughing a little. _Only in Sunnydale…_ "Still don't trust me, though." He gestured at the distance between them. She blushed a little, smiled.

"Gotta be a little more careful these days. Besides, I thought you took it as a compliment."

He nodded, still grinning as he looked at the floor. There was an awkward silence. "Well," he said finally, "you've done your good deed for the day. Better trundle on home before the Slayer finds out you're consorting with the enemy."

She wouldn't be put off that easily. "You'll think about what I said?"

He couldn't meet her eyes. "Yeah, I'll think on it."

"OK. I can bring you more blood, if you need it."

"Keep me from the path of temptation?"

She lifted a shoulder. "Can't hurt." She turned to go.

"Will."

"Yeah?" She turned around again, squinting in the sunlight.

"Thanks for stopping by." Then, "You're a tough bird. Wicca tricks or no."

She grinned. "Thanks," she replied, and closed the door behind her.

TBC


	5. Five

A/N: Thanks again for all the encouraging reviews. I'd welcome any constructive criticism, too, as this fic is a little outside of my "comfort zone," so to speak, and it's more or less kicking my ass. So any suggestions would be much appreciated!

--------------------------------------

As Buffy drifted slowly back to consciousness, her first thought was to wonder why she'd worn her clothes to bed. She hadn't done that since her Doublemeat days… Fuzzily, she cracked one eye open, glanced at the clock. 3:32. Dawn would be getting home soon. _Why did I--_

And then it all came flooding back. Spike, the chip, the tree, the moonlight reflecting off that damn black duster, the angry/hurt look in those piercing blue eyes that always affected her _way_ too much. She felt her stomach twist slowly, settle into a cold, heavy lump somewhere behind her abdomen. She put a hand over her eyes, wishing beyond expression that she'd woken up and found it had all been another freaky Buffy dream.

"Buffy!"

She sighed. "I'm upstairs, Dawnie."

She heard Dawn clomping up the stairs, winced a little as the door bounced open.

"Long night?" Dawn asked, leaning casually against the doorframe, a fake smile plastered all over her face. Buffy could tell she'd be getting no sympathy from that corner.

"Yup," she replied, a little shortly.

"Sooo… What was the body count for Big Bad Evil Spike last night?"

"Zero." She was too tired even to glare. "But I was watching him."

"Zero. What a shocker," Dawn started triumphantly. "Well, I gotta say--"

She was interrupted by the sound of a door slamming downstairs. "Buff? Dawnie?"

"Up here, Will," Buffy called quickly, grateful for the interruption. She sat up and ran a hand through her hair. Dawn just stared at her, eyes accusing, arms crossed.

Willow could feel the tension from halfway down the stairs. "Hey," she said brightly as she joined Dawn in Buffy's doorway, trying to pretend she didn't notice the daggers that the littlest Summers was directing at her sister. Buffy looked exhausted. Worse, she looked… two-dimensional, somehow. Her face was almost completely blank, her eyes empty. Willow's heart ached for her. Every time her best friend seemed to be getting her feet back on the ground, something came along and knocked them out from under her again. 

"How was school, Dawnie?" she asked, trying to draw Dawn's fire and give Buffy at least a temporary break.

"Fine," Dawn muttered sulkily, still staring at Buffy.

Willow plowed ahead. "Need any homework help from the resident math geek?"

Ah--that did it. Dawn's glare lasered away from her sister, fixed on Willow. "I don't need any help. You don't have to tell me what to do. You're not my mother. You're not even part of this family." She whirled, hair flying, and stomped her way back downstairs.

Buffy sighed and rubbed her eyes, trying to figure out how she'd gotten a headache already. "At the risk of sounding incredibly old and decrepit… were we that bad?"

Willow raised an eyebrow, smiled wryly. "Zero to bitch in one-point-five seconds. Don't you remember?"

Buffy slumped back against the pillows. "Seems like forever ago."

"OK." Willow flung herself on the bed next to her friend, poking a finger into her ribs as they bounced from the impact. "Now you sound old and decrepit." Buffy giggled for a second, then the smile melted away into that thousand-yard stare that always gave Willow a chill down her spine. "So… you wanna give me the details on how things went with Spike?" she asked quietly, curling a pillow under her head. "You weren't exactly Miss Specificity this morning."

Buffy gave a strangled half-laugh. "Well, we had a nice little chat about the nature of good and evil, and he didn't kill anybody. That I know of. He didn't really seem to be plotting a massacre, but it's so hard to tell with vampires. Oh, and there's a tree outside his crypt that's a really crappy place to spend the night." _Even with an extra blanket._ She'd folded it carefully in the morning, exactly as he'd left it, but she had a feeling he'd smell her on it.

"You and Spike talked about the nature of good and evil?" Even given her earlier visit with Spike, it still caught her off-guard. "Wow." She was caught between pride at Buffy exploring deep philosophical questions, and the unspeakable weirdness of the mental image.

"Yeah. Buffy the Vampire Debate Partner." She covered her eyes with her hand again, groaning. "God. What am I doing, Will? Remember the good old days, when it was just hunt, fight, slay?"

Willow bit back all the platitudes that rushed to her mind, and simply nodded. "Yeah. It was easier."

"I know, I know what you're not saying." Buffy looked at her, and the emptiness in her eyes was a hundred times worse than tears. "I know it's all part of the fabulous process of becoming an adult. I know that the world isn't as black and white as I used to think." She sighed, and looked away, her fingers pulling methodically at the bedspread. "But… why me? I don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time, and I'm supposed to be in charge, I'm supposed to know what's right and save the world and make the tough choices. I'm twenty-two and I am so. Freaking. Tired." She rested her head against Willow's shoulder for a second, then laughed shakily. "Bet you didn't know you'd RSVPed for the Buffy Pity Party."

Willow wondered how much Buffy had needed her, while she'd been dealing with the magic addiction, and felt a stab of guilt. "Well, you can save me a permanent spot on the guest list."

That got another tiny laugh, followed by a sigh. "I'd better go talk to Dawn." _Though I'd rather go a few rounds with a nest of angry vampires--at least I know what's gonna piss _them_ off._

"No, don't." Willow sat up, grabbed the afghan folded at the bottom of the bed, and tossed it over her friend. "You had a rough night. You should be making with the relaxation. I'll go talk to her. I don't even think she really cares which one of us she's yelling at, as long as she gets to yell at someone." She was relieved to see the tension in Buffy's face ease marginally. Encouraged, she continued, "I might even see what I can throw together for dinner. I mean, I _do_ miss chem lab."

Buffy looked at her like she'd just offered to take her on a week-long vacation to Europe. The guilt expanded in Willow's stomach. "Really?" Buffy asked.

Willow forced a smile, smashing the guilt into a resolution to do better, to help more. "Of course. If you trust me."

Buffy smiled back. "You're the best, Will."

"You bet your sweet bippy I am. I'll call you for dinner." She rose, making sure Buffy was comfortably settled on the pillows, and headed downstairs, shutting Buffy's door carefully behind her.

In the living room, Dawn seemed determined to make as much noise as humanly possible, slamming books and backpack and notebooks around with equal fervor. Willow just watched her for a minute, giving silent points for style and execution. Finally, Dawn rounded on her.

"What?" she snapped. "I'm doing my homework."

"That's great," Willow replied calmly. "Wanna come into the kitchen and do some chemistry experiments with me?"

Dawn eyed her warily. "Would these experiments, by any chance, involve food items and in many cultures be referred to as 'making dinner'?"

Willow beamed at her. "See? You're getting smarter already."

Dawn couldn't hold back a smile, but it rapidly turned into a pout as she looked back down at her books. "I don't know why she's so mean. After everything he's done for her. Is it too much to ask for her not to kill my friends? It's not like I have that many."

"I hate to sound like a grown-up, but… this is hard for her, too, Dawnie." She went to the younger girl and ran her fingers soothingly through the long dark hair. "She's been making the big decisions and trying to save the world since she was your age. I mean, so much stuff has happened to her, it's kind of surprising she hasn't gone totally nuts. It's a lot of responsibility. And I think she's just tired."

"I hate that she's like this," Dawn muttered, her eyes still fixed on her books. "Like she can't stand being here. Like we're all such a burden for her. Like she's still really dead."

Willow couldn't argue with that. "I know." She paused for a second, then, "That's why I think we ought to help her as much as we can. I mean, we _have_ sort of been moochy-girls lately. Maybe if we can help with the everyday stuff, Buffy can get back on track dealing with the major world stuff."

Dawn wrinkled her nose. "So by everyday stuff, you mean making dinner and cleaning up and doing chores? What's the good of having a sister with super-powers if I've still gotta clean the bathroom every week?"

"I don't think bathroom-cleaning is exactly a vital part of the Slaying arsenal," Willow returned wryly. Then she brightened. "But hey, you can say that you can do something the Slayer can't!" She deepened her voice, took on just a hint of a backwoods Southern accent. "Yup, that Slayer sure can stake them vamps, but she can't fry an egg to save her life!"

That got a reluctant giggle. "So my super-power could be cooking? That's so not fair. I want a cool super-power, like X-ray vision or flying or something."

Willow smiled at her, though her smile turned a little sad as something occurred to her. "You know, the funny thing is, Buffy just wants to be normal."

Dawn snorted, finally meeting Willow's eyes. "We're _never_ gonna be normal. Ever."

"I know," Willow sighed. "But come on--we can pretend." 

"I still think we're getting the short end of the stick," Dawn muttered, but the protest was mostly for show as she followed the redheaded witch into the kitchen.

---------------------------------

"So?" Dawn asked proudly as everyone sat back in their chairs. "What's the verdict?"

Xander patted his stomach, smiled amiably at her and Willow. "Well, Dawnster, I can honestly say I've never had a culinary experience quite like it."

"The spinach was the color of money, and the consistency that money might be if you boiled it a really long time and mashed it up together," Anya offered, too brightly. "Of course, I don't know why you'd want to do that to money, but still, it was an intriguing sensation." She smiled encouragingly at Dawn.

Willow was excavating in the remains on her plate. "Maybe the anchovies weren't such a great idea."

"It was great, Will," Buffy put in quickly, as Xander mouthed _"Anchovies?!" _incredulously at Anya and turned a little green around the edges. "Thank you. And thank _you_," she added to Dawn, who turned bright red and smiled at her sister for the first time all day. To be honest, Buffy didn't even really know what the meal had tasted like--it just felt so good to be eating something she hadn't had to cook or bring home in a paper sack. Looking down at the kaleidoscope of colors swirled together on her plate, she figured it was probably best if she never knew exactly what poor, unsuspecting food items had been sacrificed for the cause. It was the thought that counted, right?

"Well, we'll do better next time," Willow replied, looking meaningfully at Dawn, who was still so pleased at the compliment that she didn't even roll her eyes. "I'm not as good with the cooking as I am with the baking, I think."

"I can help out, too," Tara offered. "Cooking was considered a pretty vital skill for the women in my family."

"I intend to have the men in my family learn how to cook. And do the dishes, too. Lots of relationships could be saved if the man would just learn how to do dishes." Anya commented, squeezing Xander's hand.

Xander smiled fondly at her. "I think that's my cue." He got up and began clearing dishes.

Buffy looked around the table at her friends, realizing how few of these simple group meals they'd had since Joyce had died. It was good to have everyone together for reasons that didn't involve the impending end of all life as they knew it. And thanks to Willow's and Dawn's sudden possession by Martha Stewart, she actually got to sit back and enjoy it. She felt almost peaceful.

Oh yeah. Except for the fact that her vampire ex-lover was hanging around town, possibly planning to kill them all. The lanky peroxide blonde vampire ex-lover, actually, as opposed to the big brooding spiky-haired vampire ex-lover. _God, I can't believe I have to clarify that_. _How pathetic a Slayer am I?_ As much as she'd enjoyed hanging out with her friends, it had been eating at her all night. Even Willow's well-intentioned plan to give her time to relax only gave her more time to think, and thinking… well, it hurt, no two ways about it, and it only made her more confused. She needed some action. She pushed back her chair abruptly.

"Thank you guys, for all the help. And I hate to bail, but it's getting late. I should get with the patrolling." She tried to ignore how everyone tried not to look at each other, how the unspoken questions suddenly thickened the air. So much for group bonding.

Xander set down the dishes he'd been gathering. "Need any backup?" he asked, letting the question hang on two levels.

She gave him a quick, mirthless grin, shrugging into her jacket. "Thanks, but no. I don't think I'll run into anything I can't handle." She crossed to Dawn, kissed the top of her sister's head. "'Night, Dawn. I won't remind you about your homework, 'cause I know you have it covered." Dawn looked up at her, stunned into silence, sulk completely derailed. Buffy held back a smile, despite the tension. _Wow. I should try that more often._

"Be careful," Willow told her, looking like she wanted to help but had no idea how.

Buffy nodded as she picked up a couple of stakes and shoved them into her pockets. "Yep. See you guys tomorrow." Feeling the adrenaline start to pump through her, washing away the ache in her chest, she ducked gratefully out into the night.

-----------------------------------

Two hours later, she was reflecting angrily that this was quite possibly the most boring, uneventful, completely evil-less night in the history of Sunnydale. She'd been through every graveyard in town--well, every one except for one--and there was nothing. Not even drunks outside the bars. All was right with the world, all was calm, all was bright, all was freakin' quiet on the Western front.

It was driving her nuts.

Finally, she couldn't avoid it any more. She forced herself to change direction, marched grimly in the direction of Spike's crypt. Being in Sunnydale, she got there much too soon. She was almost hoping she'd find him in the midst of some unspeakable act, so she could just stake him and be done with it, but he was just standing outside his tomb, leaning against the outer wall, wreathed in smoke. Watching her. She could feel the heat from his eyes even at a distance, and had to stop for a second despite herself as her knees went a little weak. She hated it when he did that to her.

Spike had been puttering uselessly around his crypt when he'd suddenly been hit with a wave of supremely pissed-off Slayer pheromones. He'd had just enough time to light a cigarette and look casual when he saw her, steaming across his graveyard like the Little Engine That Couldn't Find Anything to Kill and Was Pretty Brassed Off About It. He saw her pause for a second as she saw him, then plow on with renewed determination. He swallowed a grin. Maybe this night had some hope for it after all.

"Slayer," he greeted her calmly, as she glared challengingly at him.

"Spike," she spat, wondering why she could sometimes _feel_ him smirking, even though his mouth was still. Yet another annoying thing about him.

"Slow night?" he inquired innocently, knowing the answer. Her pent-up frustration was getting him a little more hot and bothered than he wanted to admit, and he tried to ignore it. She might have been the sexiest damned thing he'd ever seen, but as she was still deciding whether or not to kill him, he had a feeling it would be best for both of them if he kept that opinion to himself. Besides, he was still pissed off about the night before.

"Yeah," she replied shortly. "How did you know?"

He shrugged, all nonchalance. "Did a quick sweep earlier." Actually, he'd nearly been climbing the walls until he sensed her coming. An entire day cooped up inside with his hungry demon had been more than a little nerve-wracking, despite his friendly visitors.

"Looking for dinner?" she sneered, latching onto any possible point of contention.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Lots of humans out and about tonight, luv. You see any dead bodies strewn about looking a bit dehydrated?"

She frowned. "No."

He dropped his James Dean act, just for a second, laughed a little. "Kind of ironic, innit? The one night the Hellmouth decides it'd rather stay home, and here we are, all dressed up and no one to--"

"You wanna fight?" she interrupted suddenly, the words rushing out like steam from a tea-kettle.

He looked at her, a little surprised, then shrugged and flicked away his smoke. "Yeah, all right."

She lunged at him.

They'd sparred many times, but never like this. There was an edge this time, a kind of desperate energy, an unspoken hint that this time, she might really, he might really. Spike threw himself into the dance with the kind of abandon he hadn't felt since… well… the last time she'd really tried to kill him. It took him back to the glory days of Prague and Paris and New Orleans, when a second death was always just around the corner. Buffy simply enjoyed the complete mental shutdown as instinct and adrenaline took over.

The fight ranged all over the cemetery, all flashes of leather and grunts of pain and, in Spike's case, the occasional wild laugh. Graves, tombstones, crypts, trees, nothing was sacred--everything was simply a prop for their deadly performance. Spike's face was lit with a kind of fierce, manic glee; Buffy was all business, grim determination, her brow furrowed as if he was a problem she was trying to solve. The air between them seemed to crackle with energy as they punched, kicked, ducked, flipped, circled. There was no energy wasted on playful banter, only grace and focus and heat and challenge.

Finally, Spike put too much speed into an attack and she had him, using his own momentum to flip him over so quickly that before he even had time to rearrange ground and sky, she was straddling his torso, breathing hard, stake hovering just above his heart. Since she didn't seem to be planning on doing more for the moment, he took the opportunity to look at her: face flushed, hair tousled, chest heaving, all taut muscle and coiled energy. He couldn't hold back a smile of sheer admiration.

"God, you're good, Summers."

Buffy blinked, feeling almost like she was waking up from a dream. "I…" She scrambled off of him, straightening her clothes, shoving the stake back in her pocket. He just watched her, head cocked slightly, a tiny, quizzical smile on his face, and she suddenly realized: she couldn't have done it. Strong as she was, there was no way she could have found the strength to push that stake through his chest, feel him crumble into dust beneath her. Just thinking of it made her heart contract painfully. _I couldn't do it. Oh, fuck, I couldn't do it._ The realization scared the holy hell out of her. She turned, started to stumble her way out of the graveyard.

Oh, no. He wasn't letting her get away that easily. "You're born to this," he called after her, levering himself to his feet, and was pleasantly surprised when she actually stopped. She still had her back to him, but at least, for once, she wasn't running off. "It's what you're meant to do. Why're you always running away from it?"

_Death is my gift. Looks like a Slayer is just a killer after all._ "What are you talking about?" She couldn't look at him, but she couldn't seem to walk away, either.

He could hear the tension in her voice, knew she was close to the edge, but he pressed on anyway. At least he could still make her feel something. "I've had more than a few dancing partners in my life, pet, and I'll tell you, none of them could touch you. I know it's your great fateful duty and blah blah blah, but fucking hell, Buffy, you should at least enjoy it. You used to. What the hell happened?"

Now she whirled on him, eyes hot and swimming with tears. God, why did he always know how to push her into overload? "I grew up," she snapped. "Funny thing--you kill enough, it gets old eventually. Unless you're you, I guess."

"It's not about the kill." He advanced on her, then stopped, considering. "Well, not really." He ignored her frustrated eye-roll, moving closer until he was just barely out of her reach. "It's about the fight. About your nature, about throwing everything you are on the line, and winning. You treat it like a weight, but it's a gift."

_Death is my gift._ "A gift?" she repeated bitterly. "Then I hope whoever gave it to me kept the receipt."

"Easy for you to say. You've never been weak."

That caught her off-guard. "I haven't always been the Slayer."

He waved a hand, dismissing her. "Yeah. You used to be just another one of the girls. Except for being sodding homecoming queen and head cheerleader and hell knows what-all else. Probably had a gaggle of empty-headed Buffys-in-training flitting around you like moths to a bleeding flame. Oh, and lest I forget, your boy-toy was captain of the football team. Am I right?" He reached for a cigarette, but held her eyes, daring her to prove him wrong.

He wasn't, of course, though she had no idea how he knew all that stuff about her. Maybe Dawn had been blabbing. "Maybe," she replied defensively. "So?"

He barked a laugh. "So? That's not weak, pet. It's just a different kind of power. You have something in you. Something I haven't seen in all my years, and I've been around awhile. You have a kind of power that other people have fought and died for. Yeah, you have to make the tough decisions sometimes. But isn't it worth it? It _is_ a gift, no matter how much you bitch about it, and you'd throw it away because you want to be… what? Normal?" He shook his head, took a long drag on his smoke. "Ask Willow about _normal_. Hell, ask the whelp, he's the bloody poster boy for it. And then tell me you want it." He lowered his voice, feeling the words scrape past the sudden lump in his throat. "I know normal, pet. And I can tell you, I'd rather die--again--than go back to it."

She could feel the tears coming, and tried desperately to smash them back down where they belonged, out of sight. Who was he to tell her about her life? He was a vampire, for God's sake, a vampire whose idea of a romantic profession of love was chaining her in a basement with his wigged-out demon ex-lover. What the hell did he know? Who was he to make her cry, when almost nothing else seemed to touch her?

And why didn't she want to kill him?

The last question was too much. She had to get out of there. "Dawn's waiting," she managed finally, hoping he didn't notice her fist dashing the tears from her eyes.

Spike growled/sighed, a sound he seemed to need often when dealing with her. He was so bloody sick of the Buffy Summers Merry-Go-Round, the two steps forward followed by the ever-popular three steps back. He'd always thought of himself as a tenacious bugger, but even he had his limits.

"Fine," he said finally, through his teeth. "Give the Little Bit my best." He couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Uh-huh." She turned, began picking her way through the tombstones. He watched her retreating back for what felt like the thousandth time, and tried to remember why he'd come back here in the first place.

TBC


	6. Six

"The thing about women," Spike slurred earnestly to no one in particular, clutching a whiskey bottle that seemed, in the reflection in the mirror behind the bar, to be floating in thin air, "is that they give you the big, wide eyes like they're a liiiiitle helpless fluffy bunny," and he affected a high-pitched whine, "`Oh please help me I'm so wounded and sad and I just _need_ someone who'll _be_ there for me,' and then, BAM!" He slammed a hand down on the bar, sending shotglasses tumbling like dominoes. "They reach inside you and tear your guts out."

"Watch the glassware," the bartender muttered at him. "You break it, you buy it."

Spike ignored the remonstration, pointing a slightly confused but very heartfelt finger at the other man. "And I know what it feels like," he continued doggedly, "'cause I've had a woman reach inside me and mess about with my guts. Well, not so much a woman as a crazy hell-goddess who liked to suck out people's brains. But she did--dug her finger right inside me and twisted everything all about, like I was some sort of… stew she was stirring." He sighed, a little wistfully. "That was nice, come to think of it. No pretense, no games, no bloody _teasing_. Just plain, honest torture."

The bartender eyed him. "All right, man, either you quit with the crazy talk or I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. After all you've had tonight, you ought to be drunk enough for three men, anyway."

"Drunk?" Spike repeated, offended. "D'you know what it takes to get a bloke like me drunk, mate?" He tried to number the scattered shotglasses in front of him, lost count at around fifteen, and then studied the half-empty bottle he was cradling. He couldn't have said for sure, but he had the distinct impression it wasn't the first bottle he'd gone through tonight. He frowned at the bartender. "Well, all right. You may have a point." Then, defensively, "But I'm not drunk because of her! I'm drunk because… I _want_ to be." He brandished his finger again, to underscore his point, and ended up whacking it hard on the edge of the bar. "Ow!" he yelled, trying to shake the pain away. It cleared his head for a second, and he realized how he'd look to any self-respecting vampire: drunk, depressed, complaining to a human, screeching like a little girl over an owie on his finger, and all because of a woman. A stupid little blond bit of a thing he should have been able to kill without a second thought. He buried his head in his hands. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "I am a sad, sad wanker."

"You look like you could use some company," came a voice from behind him. Female. Fantastic. Just exactly what he needed.

"Had enough company for one night," he mumbled into his hands, willing her to just go the hell away.

"I know the feeling," she replied, and the resigned sadness in her voice was enough to make him look up at her as she slid onto the stool next to him. He'd never seen her before, that he knew of, but he'd seen others like her--long, dark hair; curves that seemed made for a man's hands; a short leather skirt that exposed a vast expanse of slim, muscled legs; and a challenge in those huge, sad eyes. _Come on,_ she seemed to be saying, _I dare you to hurt me more._

Time was, she'd've been exactly his type.

"Look, you don't have to talk to me," she told him, motioning to the bartender. "Just look imposing and keep the other guys away from me." She jerked her head in the direction of the far back corner of the bar, where a group of men were slumped at a table, leering. "Like you said, I've had enough company."

He considered telling her to sod off and leave him alone with his whiskey, but then again, she _had_ said he was imposing… "Fair enough." He shrugged, sat a little taller, moved the bottle from his lap back onto the bar.

The barkeep brought her drink--whiskey, Spike noted, surprised, and a generous double at that. "Playing my song, luv," he told her with an ironic smile, gesturing with his own bottle.

She shrugged in return, clinking her glass against the bottle-neck. "Here's to it, then." She took a long drink, and wrinkled her nose a little, exhaling hard. "So," she said. "I know I said you didn't have to talk to me, and you don't, but I feel like talking, so if you don't want to answer, I'll just have to keep up both sides of the conversation by myself."

"I'm used to that," he answered, thinking of certain Summers women who hardly let him get a word in edgewise and yet _still_ complained that he talked too much.

She laughed a little, mirthlessly. "She must be one hell of a woman."

His supercharged healing was starting to kick in, flushing the alcohol from his body (dammit), but he was still too far gone to deny it. "In the sense that she's become my personal version of hell, yeah, I guess you could say that." Then, quietly, reluctantly, "And in the other sense, too." He looked at her again. "How'd you know?"

"Well," she took another long swig, "I look at you, with that long leather coat and that fuck-the-world attitude and, let's be honest here--" she eyed him up and down, and he could feel the heat from her gaze--"that body of yours, and I wonder what kind of woman she must be to have you wrapped around a whiskey bottle like that."

He realized he was clutching the bottle again, and took a swig to match hers before setting it very deliberately on the bar. "_Fuck-the-world attitude," eh? "Let's be honest, that body"?_ He was liking this woman better and better. "What about you, pet?" he asked, turning a little more towards her, motioning for the bartender to refill her drink. "Some stupid sod send you packing?"

She raised an eyebrow at his bluntness, but the alcohol seemed to be dulling her defenses a bit. "Yeah, thanks for putting it so delicately." And there they were, the fluffy-bunny eyes.

He snorted, chugged more whiskey. A pleasant warmth was beginning to spread through him again, sluicing away the tightness in his chest. "He's a bleedin' moron."

"Pretty much." She stared into her almost-empty glass, and the full glass the bartender set next to it, a tiny smile curving her mouth at the compliment. She had a lovely mouth, he couldn't help noticing. They were silent for a moment.

"Isn't this the point where we exchange the sordid details of our sad stories?" he asked finally.

"Doesn't matter," she replied, sighing. "It's the same old story."

_Oh yeah?_ he thought. _De-chipped vampire in love with the Slayer? Heard that one before?_ Still, he figured she was probably right--the details might have been a bit unusual, but the tale was a tired one. Love unrequited, love unattainable; it was the kind of thing he might have written poetry about, a century or so ago. The silence fell again. He drank, and he could almost feel the alcohol flowing through him, numbing him, turning his brain into happy mush. He was so tired of thinking, of hurting, of--

"You want to get out of here?" she asked suddenly. He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Why? So we can have a nice pity fuck? Thanks, I've had enough of those."

"No." The emptiness in her eyes was melting away, so he could see the raw pain behind it. "Because I want you, and I think you want me, and it feels good to be wanted. It would be dangerous and it would feel good and we might get to stop thinking for awhile. Besides," she added, with a hint of a challenging smirk, "it's cheaper than sitting here drinking whiskey all night, and I'd bet I'll feel better in the morning."

He looked her up and down, appraising her. She wasn't lying about wanting him; he could smell it on her. And he couldn't deny that she was right--it did feel good, being wanted for once. And his demon certainly liked the idea, he realized, as he found himself staring at the curve of her neck, the pulse beating steadily beneath the creamy skin. Then he glanced back at her eyes, and it hit him like a sledgehammer: he didn't want to kill her. Yeah, seduce-and-swig had always been more Angelus' style than his, but he'd never turned it down when it was offered like this. She'd even said she wanted danger, and he could feel his stomach growling. Still, he didn't want to. _Oh, fuck, why don't I want to?_ Trying to stay calm, he mustered up a smile. "No offense, luv, but we'd best not. You might get more than you bargained for."

He'd expected hurt at the rejection, but she just kept looking at him, cool as a statue. "Why? Because you're a vampire?"

His jaw dropped. "You knew?" he hissed, for once trying not to draw attention to himself. Much as he loved a good bar brawl, he had a feeling he wasn't exactly at the top of his game, what with his earlier ass-kicking at the Slayer's hands and the gallon or so of whiskey he'd gone through since.

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. I've been in Sunnydale a long time, pal. And no one here's that pale unless they've got a serious sunlight allergy."

"What the bloody hell are you playing at, then?" he snapped. "You know what I could do to you."

She laughed harshly, crossing one long leg over the other and tossing her hair as she took another drink. "Yeah. You could make me like you. In fact, I was hoping you might."

Well, that was one he hadn't heard in awhile. He buried his head in his hands again, beginning to seriously regret the alcohol that was still fogging his brain. It made the whole thing seem like some demented nightmare. "Oh, balls…" he muttered feelingly, wondering if he was lucky enough that any minute now he'd be waking up all tucked away in his crypt.

No such luck. She grabbed his arm. "No. I'm not some stupid kid looking for immortality. I want to be strong. I want to be fearless." Her dark eyes were glittering now with angry tears. "I want to not care anymore."

He looked at her again, this time appraising in a different light. Her reasoning was as good as his had been, the night he'd first met Dru. 'Course, he hadn't really known what he was getting into, but he'd never once regretted it. He cocked his head. _She'd make a hell of a vampire_, he thought. All dark and fierce and tough and sarcastic. And if he sired her, she'd never want to leave him, she'd love him the way he'd loved Dru… and the way Dru had loved Angelus. She'd be his. His Childe, his to train, his to save. It was certainly tempting.

He opened his mouth, on the verge of telling her yes, he'd turn her and deliver her from mediocrity into glorious blood and mayhem. But all that came out was, "Sorry, pet. Can't do it."

"_What?_" she said incredulously.

_What?_ his brain screamed incredulously.

His mouth kept going, oblivious. "I said I can't do it."

"Why the hell not?"

_Why the hell not?_ his brain parroted, and he told it firmly to shut up. Still, it was a valid question. Why, indeed, the hell not?

As soon as he asked the question, though he realized the answer was obvious. Buffy. He could make this gorgeous dark creature love him, but he'd still be in love with the Slayer. He'd tried to stop enough times to know it was impossible. He didn't have any answers that didn't begin and end with her, and now she was driving him to deny everything he'd always been, to deny this woman the salvation that Dru had blessed him with. Even when she was gone, even when he hated her, even when his demon was exulting inside him, she was there. And there was nothing he could do to exorcise her. He wasn't sure if he was more terrified or furious at the realization.

He realized the woman across from him was still waiting for him to respond, eyes flashing with barely-contained fire. He chuckled a little, and gave her an answer--not the whole answer, but as good as any. "You'd make a brilliant vampire, pet. But it wouldn't help."

He watched the despair creeping into the anger. "It wouldn't? But you take what you want, when you want, you don't care about anything. Nothing can touch you."

He took a last swig off the bottle, set it down on the bar in front of her. "You'd care about me," he told her. "You'd love me, because I'd be your sire, only I'd still love her, and I'd leave you, just like my sire left me, and her sire left her." He shrugged. "If you're love's bitch, you're love's bitch. Becoming a vampire only makes it last longer."

She was staring at him, open-mouthed. "What kind of a vampire are you, anyway? I'm, like, throwing myself at you, here."

He sighed. "And it's flattering, luv, really. It's just… well… a hell of a lot longer story than I have time for at the moment." He tossed enough bills down on the bar to cover her whiskey and his, then pressed a few more into her hand. He had to get out of there before he lost it completely. "Here. Take a cab home. No sense in me turning you down just so you can get gobbled up by some other nasty on the way back to yours. You've got something to live for now--you can tell all your friends you've met the world's first toothless vampire." Then, re-considering, "Well, the world's first toothless vampire with good hair, anyway."

She frowned at him. "I don't get this."

He laughed bitterly as he got up and began making his way towards the door. "Neither do I, luv. Neither do I."

_Well, at least I still know how to make a good exit_, he congratulated himself wryly as he headed down the street. He heard footsteps behind him, and for a second he thought she might be following him, but the steps were too heavy. He whirled, hands raised to attack or defend, and then burst into incredulous laughter as he saw who was chasing him.

"Of course," he groaned, clawing a hand through his hair with a kind of amused resignation. "Should've known the worst night of my existence couldn't be complete without a visit from the bleeding bricklayer."

"What the hell was that all about in there?" Xander demanded, panting a little as he caught up to the vampire.

"None of your sodding business, is it?" Spike retorted, beginning to wonder if he'd really explored the full benefits of being able to hit the annoying little pillock. He might've been undergoing a bit of an identity crisis, but pounding on Xander for awhile was still well within acceptable limits. Then something occurred to him. "What're you doing here, anyway? Not exactly the type of place for good little boys and girls. The Slayer send you to check up on me?"

"No." Was it his imagination, or did the whelp sound a bit defensive? Looked like old Spike wasn't the only one who didn't like being thought of as the Slayer's lapdog. "I followed you."

"You _what_?" Spike grabbed the front of Xander's jacket with both hands. "You followed me? _You_. Followed _me_." Xander nodded, then coughed as the wind drifted his way.

"Geez, Spike. Whiskey much?"

Spike barely heard him, tossing the other man away, holding his spinning head in his hands and leaning against the alley wall with another heartfelt groan. "Bloody hell. Bowling Boy followed me. May as well paint a fat bloody target on my chest and declare it open bloody season."

"Hey!" Xander straightened his jacket, offended, and made what Spike considered to be a pathetic attempt to puff out his chest. "I've got military experience on my resume."

Spike favored him with a withering glare. "You've got a military _costume_ on your resume, you moron."

"All right, Spike, that's it." Xander strode over, yanked Spike upright. "For five years, you've been telling me I'm weak, I'm helpless, I'm nothing but Buffy's butt-monkey." While Spike tried to eradicate that mental image, Xander continued, threatening. "I'm done. It ends here. Right here."

Spike saw the fist coming, but the whiskey slowed him down. He reflected, momentarily, that it was ironic that his vampiric healing abilities chose this moment to go on the fritz. Or maybe there were little pockets of whiskey inside him, hiding, waiting to ambush him. Then he was distracted from his musings by a surprisingly powerful shock on his jaw, and his arm was reacting of its own volition, readying a return attack. The fight with Buffy had been poetry; this was more like an off-key pub song--ugly, tactless, but still good enough fun in its own way. Punches, kicks, bites, even the odd hair-pull (though neither of them would admit to it later), fell with clumsy abandon. Despite the fact that they'd both been dreaming of this moment for five long years, it was something less than epic. They simply staggered about in the alley for awhile, Spike too drunk and Xander too, well, _human_ to do any permanent damage. Finally, Spike lowered a shoulder and half-heartedly drove Xander into the wall, and they both slumped to the ground.

"Well," Spike offered, panting out of habit as he levered himself up against the wall, "I certainly feel much more manly now." He gingerly probed a loose tooth with his tongue. He'd taken more damage than he'd expected--whelp had an arm on him. Probably from hauling boxes of merchandise for the Queen of Capitalism, or some other poofter-type activity.

"Yup, gotta agree with you there," Xander wheezed, trying to catch his breath. He rolled over, sat up carefully, wincing as he reached up to gauge the swelling under his left eye. "Maybe we should've done this years ago."

"Unh," Spike agreed indistinctly, resting his head on the cool bricks behind him.

They sat quiet for a moment, recuperating, then Xander managed, "So really. What was going on in there? That chick was all over you--I thought you'd've snatched her up like a Slurpee." Then he grimaced, obviously working through the mental image. "Note to self: don't compare people to convenience store items."

Spike smirked. "She was all over me, wasn't she? And hot, too."

Xander nodded slowly, as if he was afraid his head was going to fall off. "That she was." Then, when Spike didn't elaborate, he prodded, "So? What happened?"

Spike laughed a little, feeling amused, helpless, and incredibly tired at the same time. "Buffy happened, that's what. As usual. Stupid bint won't leave me alone, all wrapped around my insides like a vise, squeezing and squeezing until there's nothing left of me." He couldn't believe he was telling Xander all of this, but the night was already so surreal, it kind of seemed to fit. He realized the boy was staring at him.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You really love her, don't you." It was more of a statement than a question, but still, Xander seemed to be having trouble getting his head around it.

Spike laughed again, bitterly. "Yeah. What tipped you off--the pain or the neutering?"

Xander was still staring at him. "And you turned that woman down, for her."

Spike nodded, staring up at the sky with a self-deprecating grin on his face, feeling a temporary but welcome sense of detachment. 

"Yeah. I thought getting the chip out would help, but it didn't. Just made everything worse. Now I don't have an excuse for not knowing what the hell I am. I just know I'm not what I used to be, and it's all wrapped up in her and Dawn and even your little Superfriends, and there's fuck-all I can do about it. As long as I remember her, I'll be fighting against my nature every day for the rest of my immortal life." He shook his head, his eyes unfocused. "Worst part is, it's not just that she made me care. It's that she made me _want_ to care." He paused, looked down. "Don't know if I can forgive her for that."

Neither one of them spoke for a while after that, as the slowly-dwindling sounds of the bar filtered into the alley. Then suddenly, Spike looked sharply at Xander.

"You tell anyone about this, I'll make you pay for it, Slayer or no."

Xander laughed weakly. "Hey. This isn't exactly a high point for me, either. Your secret's safe with me, Evil Dead." Then, looking as if the words pained him, "I was wrong."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna need to specify there, mate. That covers a lot of territory."

Xander huffed out his breath, frustrated, but soldiered on. "I was wrong about you. I mean," he rushed on, as Spike's eyebrow climbed even higher, "it's not like I want to start picking out china patterns with you or anything." He stopped for a second, his eyes glazing over slightly at some painful memory. Plans for the Wedding from Hell, no doubt. "Oh, God, how I don't want to start picking out china patterns. But," he continued, focusing back on Spike again, "when I'm wrong, I admit it. And maybe you're not the completely worthless, evil, psycho stalker parasite I thought you were."

"Thanks ever so," Spike replied dryly, but he was horrified to feel a tiny, pleased spark somewhere in the darkest recesses of his chest.

"I still don't like you," Xander added hastily.

"Couldn't be more mutual," Spike replied almost before Xander finished his sentence, glad to be back on familiar ground.

Xander laughed a little. "Good. Well. Better be getting home. I've got to start work in--" he checked his watch--"hey! Three and a half hours. Nothing like a sleep-deprived man operating the heavy machinery." He rose slowly to his feet, grimaced as he put weight on his left leg. "Ow. I think you twisted my knee."

Spike snorted. "Pansy."

"Eunuch," Xander shot back. Then he shook his head, grinning reluctantly. "See you around, Spike."

"Looks like it." Spike slumped back against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands into his tired eyes. He let the exhaustion wash over him and wondered what, in the name of all that was unholy, he was going to do.


	7. Seven

A/N (for the benefit of anyone who's still around): Sorry this took me so long to update!! I've been dealing with a certain amount of upheaval in my life lately. But the end is near, so the next bits should be following at a much more reasonable pace…

-----------------------------------

Buffy couldn't remember anything about the walk home from the graveyard; everything was just a blur of tears and anger and frustration and confusion until she found herself standing on her own front porch, wondering how she was going to hide either the tear-tracks or the bruises on her face. She didn't have the energy to climb into her bedroom window, so she was stuck with going for stealth and hoping everyone had gone to bed already. She tried to collect herself, wiped the tears carefully from her cheeks, and opened the door with the silent skill of many long years of practice. 

The house was dark. Good sign. She glanced towards the stairway, knowing she should probably just cut her losses and go to bed, but she realized that even though she felt like she'd just gone a few rounds with Olaf the Troll God, she was still too worked up to sleep. So she ditched her boots and padded noiselessly into the (mercifully clean) kitchen. Hmm. The teakettle was out of the question--not exactly stealthy--but if she put water in the microwave and shut it off before the beeping started, she might get a cup of tea to calm her down a little.

__

Yes. Calm good. No problem. She took a deep breath, got a mug out of the cupboard, turned the faucet on to a quiet trickle. Her hands shook at first, but stilled as the mug filled slowly. She stared at the flickering stream of water. _Deep breaths. Don't think._ She opened another cupboard, pushed aside mac and cheese and Rice-a-Roni till she found a box of tea. English Breakfast_. Giles must have--ow. No. That way lies badness._ But it was too late—her hard-won equilibrium vanished like a dusted vamp. Even if she didn't think about Giles, it was only a short jump from English people to bleached blonde English vampires, and from that to chipless bleached blonde English vampires who loved fighting and loved her and sat in this kitchen with her mother talking about the really tiny marshmallows and made her unsure of just about everything she'd ever thought she'd known, and before she knew it she was leaning her forehead against the cupboard, squeezing her eyes shut against the tears and biting her lip so hard she could taste blood.

That was how Willow found her. The redheaded witch had stayed wakeful until she'd heard her friend come home, then spent a few minutes debating whether or not Buffy would want her privacy before curiosity and concern got the better of her and she made her way quietly downstairs. As soon as she saw the way Buffy's shoulders were shaking, she knew she'd made the right decision.

"Buffy?" she said tentatively, hesitating in the doorway, keeping her voice down so as not to wake anyone else. Buffy whirled around, and the sheer misery on her face shot straight to Willow's heart. Then she saw the bruises marring the Slayer's too-hollow cheeks, and her stomach dropped somewhere down around her ankles. "Did Spike…?"

Buffy was too surprised and too close to the edge to try to hide anything. "No," she sniffed, trying to reassure her friend. Then, reconsidering, "Well, yes, but… it wasn't…" Her face crumpled again as she remembered the end of the fight. "I couldn't kill him, Will."

Willow moved a couple of steps forward, a little at sea. "Well… did he… need killing?"

Buffy laughed breathlessly, a step away from hysteria. "I don't know. He's a vampire, isn't he?"

Willow shrugged uncomfortably. "Yeah, but…"

"So I should kill him, right?" Buffy continued in an angry, desperate whisper, her voice strangled through the lump in her throat. "Giles told me once that all vampires are evil, without any exceptions. It shouldn't matter who he is, or how he feels, or what we've…" She stopped dead, but she had a feeling she was a few words too late. Her heart pounded as she watched the confusion on Willow's face and waited for the inevitable.

"What you've…?" Willow's brow furrowed. Then she saw the look on Buffy's face--guilt, self-hatred, and pure terror. And she knew. "You… and _Spike_?" she whispered disbelievingly, eyes growing wide. "There's a… you've… Wow." She didn't even know how to say it. She trailed off as Buffy hung her head, arms dangling resignedly at her sides, and burst into barely-muffled tears.

"Wow," Willow repeated, blinking. She was speechless for a few long seconds, while Buffy continued to sob. Then she huffed out a businesslike breath and moved purposefully towards the freezer, resolve face firmly in place. "OK. Well. This is gonna need a lot of ice cream."

Buffy, covering her face with her hands, could only nod vehemently in agreement.

Willow grabbed spoons, pints and napkins with the ease of long practice, and led Buffy into the living room. Several minutes later, they were huddled on the couch underneath a blanket, face to face, pints settled comfortably between them. Buffy was still crying, but at least she was doing it with a few spoonfuls of Mint Chocolate Cookie in her.

"So…" Willow began finally, when she could see the ice cream starting to work its magic. "I'm not going to be all judgy or anything, but I have to ask… _how?_"

Buffy plunged her spoon into the carton again like she was diving for a life preserver. "I don't know," she mumbled miserably around a half-melted mouthful. "He was just always there, with the _staring_ and the _helping_ and the _listening_ and the _eyes_." She spat each word accusingly, staring vacantly at a spot on the blanket. "And then we…" She could feel herself turning red, but she forced herself to say it. "We _kissed_, that night with all the musical stuff, and it felt good, like… fire, like _something_. And then we…" OK, she had her limits. "We… morethankissed," she rushed on, "and then it was like it kept going and going and I couldn't stop it and I didn't want to and why didn't I want to?" She looked up at Willow, pleading. "What's wrong with me?" The tears began leaking again.

Willow was beginning to get the idea this might be beyond even the power of ice cream. She was still reeling a bit from the news, but she could be sure of one thing, anyway. "Buffy, _nothing_ is wrong with you," she responded immediately, putting a hand on her friend's shoulder.

But Buffy couldn't believe her. "Then why am I doing this?" she asked plaintively. "Why do I want this? Why can't I have a normal life, and a normal boyfriend, with a pulse? Is that too much to ask?"

Willow decided to ignore the term "boyfriend" for a minute, and go with what she could deal with. "Normal's overrated," she answered, with a tiny, half-sad smile. "You're the Slayer, Buffy. That's way better than normal."

_Ask Willow about normal._ God, she hated it when he was right. Still, "OK, so I'm the Slayer," she sniffed, digging her spoon vengefully into the Ben and Jerry's. "What kind of a Slayer am I, sleeping with two vampires? OK, with Angel it was this once-in-a-lifetime Romeo and Juliet type of thing, but with _Spike_? Giles'd disown me if he knew. I can't even be normally abnormal, I have to be _freakishly_ abnormal."

Willow frowned a little, thinking. "It's not like you've ever exactly been the by-the-book type." Then she smiled. "That's kinda my job."

"Yeah, but this…" Buffy shook her head. She was silent for a moment, then, so quietly Willow could hardly hear her, "He's… dark. And I like it."

Suddenly, Willow sensed, they were on dangerous ground. She wasn't quite sure how to respond. Very carefully, Buffy set her spoon and ice cream aside, unable to meet her friend's eyes.

"Dracula told me the Slayer's power is rooted in darkness," she started slowly. "The First Slayer--and you remember what a fun-lovin' gal she was--said death was my gift. Spike said death is my art. And they're all right. I can feel it, the darkness, creeping up on me, every day, every kill. He makes it sound so easy…" Her voice was distant, dead.

Willow grabbed her arm. "Buffy, stop it. That's not you." Buffy's eyes snapped up to meet hers, challenging. "It's _not_. Even if it's in you, it's not all of you."

"Then why? Why Spike? Why can't I just do my job and get it over with?" Buffy demanded.

"You're tired," Willow tried. "You've been through a lot, and--"

"And what has it turned me into?" Buffy cut her off, and Willow could see both fear and anger in her friend's eyes. "When I came back--when you brought me back--I couldn't stand to be around anyone but him." She smiled bitterly at the shock on Willow's face. "When he saw me, the first time, my hands were all bloody, and he knew why--said I'd dug my way out of my coffin, and he'd done the same thing. And I was standing there, looking at him and looking at Dawn, and I realized… I had more in common with him than I did with any of you. I'm not just sleeping with him, I… I care about him. Whether I want to or not." She'd never said the words out loud before, but even as they poured out of her mouth, she knew they were true. It only fueled her anger. "He's killed hundreds of people, he might've killed us last night, he might kill us tomorrow. And I care about him. _That's_ what this has turned me into," she finished, with a kind of vicious triumph. "Aren't you glad you brought me back?"

As she listened, Willow had been growing paler and paler, her eyes huge. But at Buffy's final words, and the accusation behind them, she flushed with guilt and fury. "You're still mad I brought you back." It was a statement, not a question.

"I'm mad to _be_ back," Buffy answered, and now the tears were starting again, trickling down her already-raw cheeks. She was amazed she had any left. "Everything hurts, and I don't know what to do anymore. I don't know who I am anymore. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be doing any of this."

"It was selfish and stupid of me to have brought you back," Willow stated evenly, proud that her voice shook only a little, even though her throat was tight with tears. "You were happy… where you were, and I'm sorry that I took you away from it. But I _won't_ be sorry you're back, Buffy. I _won't_. Even if I brought you back for the wrong reasons, the world's better with you in it."

Buffy shook her head. "But it's not. I'm not the hero anymore, Will."

Willow laughed incredulously. "Why? Because you're tempted? You think you're so special because you have a dark side? Geez, Buffy, even Xander has a dark side."

"Yeah, but he's not sleeping with a demon." Willow arched an eyebrow, and Buffy realized what she'd just said. "OK, bad example. The point is, I shouldn't be dark. I'm supposed to be good."

Willow blew breath out between her teeth, frustrated. "God, you and Spike deserve each other. You think it's got to be one extreme or the other. So you started off all glowy and chosen and he started out all dark and fangy. Now you've both crossed a line, and you don't know where you are. Well, welcome to the world the rest of us live in. You're just scared, so you want the easy answer."

"Why not?" Buffy hissed recklessly, throwing out her hands. "It's his nature, and apparently it's mine, too."

"Because it's not supposed to be easy," Willow shot back, eyes blazing. "Seemed pretty clear to you a few months ago, when you were telling me that magic wasn't the answer to my problems. This isn't something to mess around with." She grabbed Buffy's arm for emphasis. "I don't really know what's going on with you and Spike, or why. But I know about being tempted. And I know it's hard, and I know we haven't been there for you as much as we could, and believe me, if I can make it easier on you, I will. But not that way. You wouldn't let me do it that way. And you were right. And if you… weasel out on me now, after all the good you've done, just because some Frank N. Furter wannabe in a cape told you about the Dark Side of the Force, I'm gonna be really disappointed." She released Buffy's arm, and sat back, breathing hard.

Buffy blinked, surprised. "Wow. Way to work the pop culture references, there, Will."

"Thanks," Willow preened, a smile suddenly breaking through. "I did some research on it for the Buffybot." Then the resolve face returned. "But you're not off the hook yet," she added sternly, wagging a finger. Still, when she saw the look on Buffy's face—conflicted, hurt, lost—she couldn't help softening. "Everyone's tempted, Buffy," she went on quietly. "No one can do the right thing every time, not even you. You accept it, and you do your best, and you move on. You're not supposed to give up just because you make mistakes, or because it's hard, or because you're confused. You're stronger than that."

Buffy looked at her, surprised and oddly pleased. It had been a long time since she'd felt strong in any way, besides physically, which was one of the reasons she'd been training so hard. It was strange—and good—to know that Willow still thought of her that way, even if she couldn't quite believe it herself. 

"OK," she replied finally. "Point taken." 

"Good." Willow let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "My resolve face hurts if it stays on too long." She reached out, put a comforting hand on Buffy's knee. "Besides, even if your mistakes tend to be big, mondo kinds of mistakes, you do big, mondo good stuff, too, so I think you've got some credit in the Bank of Karma. You should get a little slack."

Buffy smiled tiredly, then suddenly started giggling uncontrollably as a thought occurred to her.

"What?" Willow asked suspiciously, eyeing the other girl as if she were a grenade about to go off. There was a distinct edge of hysteria in that laughter, and Willow wasn't sure she could deal with a hysterical Slayer.

"It's just…" Buffy tried to get herself under control, failed, and just choked it out anyway between giggles. "It's just… the next time Dracula stops by, I dare you… to call him… a Frank N. Furter wannabe to his face Can't you just picture…" And then she was laughing too hard to continue. 

A moment considering that mental image was enough to set Willow off as well, and before long they were both howling, muffled in the couch cushions, the tension between them slowly melting away. Finally, Buffy took a few deep breaths and slumped back against the couch, wiping her eyes. "Normal. God. My romantic history consists of two vampires and a secret government demon-hunter. You've got a computer demon, a werewolf, and a witch. Xander's got a mummy girl, a preying mantis, a vengeance demon, and a… Cordy. Should've known we left normal several exits back." She laughed again, but even as she did, she could feel the exhaustion creeping back. It had been an incredibly long day. She felt drained, but strangely cleansed, too. "It's like it's all just going to hell," she sighed, throwing an arm back behind her head. "Nothing's like it used to be."

"Yup," Willow agreed philosophically. "You get addition down, and they throw long division at you." Then, as Buffy raised an eyebrow at her, "Hey, there's a time and a place for math metaphors, too."

Buffy rolled her eyes. Then, her smile fading, "I used to know what was right. And now I don't know anything anymore."

Willow smiled a little sadly. "Well, that sounds pretty normal to me."

Buffy's mouth dropped half-open at the revelation. "That sucks," she said finally, indignantly.

Willow couldn't help chuckling at the betrayed look on her friend's face. "Don't worry," she comforted, patting Buffy's hand. "You get used to it."

"Shut up and binge," Buffy muttered sulkily, and reached for her abandoned ice cream.


	8. Eight

In what was beginning to be an all-too-familiar scene, Spike found himself awakened by the sound of his crypt door scraping open. He supposed it was too much to hope that it was some sort of marauding demon, and when he heard Buffy yell, "Spike!" in that demanding tone of hers, his worst fears were confirmed.

All things considered, he was tired, hurt, and pissed off, with a large dollop of inner turmoil on the side. Now, granted that all wasn't entirely her fault, but he decided that was an entirely academic distinction, and therefore he was entitled to be petty and refuse to respond to her hollering. Which, not surprisingly, didn't faze her; she just kept wailing like a banshee until he saw her head appear at the top of the ladder.

"You _are_ here. Why didn't you answer me?" she demanded.

"I'm sleeping," he growled. "Can't you tell?"

She started down the ladder. "I've got something to tell you."

He snorted. "Decided I'm not worth the trouble and come here to finish me off?"

She rolled her eyes as she moved to stand next to his bed. "No. Lucky for you."

"What, then?"

"It's Angel."

The name sent a warning shiver down Spike's back, but he told himself not to panic. He shrugged carelessly, all bravado. "What about him?"

She looked him directly in the eyes. "They found a way to bind his soul to him. I'm moving to LA."

His brain told him that he should be feeling pain, but he felt nothing--only an icy numbness blanketing his entire body, and what felt like a heavy weight pressing down all his limbs. He doubted he could have moved if his unlife depended on it. He noted, distantly, that he guessed she _had_ come to kill him after all. And she was just staring at him, emotionless, like she'd just told him she was going to the supermarket. "What about Dawn?" he managed finally, the words barely a whisper out of his dry throat.

"She'll come with me," she answered, giving him a look that suggested he was a very slow child she was trying to educate. "They've got lots of high schools in LA."

"Right," he murmured, almost to himself. And now the pain was starting, a deep, slow burn, hollowing him out. He wanted to scream, bleed, anything to release the pressure, but he still couldn't move. "And the Hellmouth?"

She hitched a shoulder. "Can't stay here forever. There's lots of evil in the world." She looked at him quizzically, almost as if she were surprised at his reaction. "I'm sorry if it… hurts you."

"Hurt" was such a small word. It occurred to him that this would be a good time for a witty remark; unfortunately, he seemed to be fresh out. "When?" was all he said.

"As soon as we can get our stuff together." She was starting to look uncomfortable. The silence stretched between them. "I have to go," she said finally, abruptly.

He looked at her, and had just enough pride left not to tell her it was OK. Something wasn't right here, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what. Maybe it was the utter collapse of everything he'd built in the last three years. He just kept looking at her mutely, until she took a short breath.

"OK. Well. Goodbye, Spike." She eyed him expectantly, but he was still as a statue. She gave a minute shrug, and headed back up the ladder.

He heard the door scrape again, felt it resonate throughout his body. He stared sightlessly at the wall, and for the first time in over a century, he wished he had death to look forward to.

She stopped almost as soon as the door closed behind her, noticing with an injured air that it was raining. _Raining in California? Totally unacceptable_, she thought huffily. She ran a fussy hand through her short hair, then looked around carefully. Seeing no one nearby, she grasped the small stone hanging around her neck. Her brow furrowed with concentration. She seemed to shimmer slightly, to grow taller and thicker, blond hair curling into frizzy brown corkscrews. Finally, transformation complete, she adjusted her clothes, checked her watch, and retreated into a shadowed corner to wait.

And Halfrek smiled.

------------------------------------

Buffy dragged herself up out of sleep to find her neck stiff, her stomach complaining, and a dripping Xander staring at her with a mixture of shock and amusement.

"Wow," he commented, surveying the scene of Buffy and Willow sprawled out on the couch together, blinking sleepily, surrounded by the carcasses of various pints of Ben and Jerry's that had selflessly given their lives for the cause. "Did I just miss some kinky girl-on-girl action here, or what?"

Willow sat up blearily, her eyes only half-open. "Unh," she managed, holding her stomach. "No, but we'll be sure to invite you next time we…" Her eyes suddenly snapped alert as she realized Xander was sporting a black eye and a nasty-looking cut along his jaw. "What happened to you?"

Buffy, who had been curled into the couch idly trying to calculate calories, sat up instantly, ready to avenge where necessary. Xander's bruised jaw dropped as he caught sight of the black and blue marks on her face.

"Did Spike…?" they immediately asked each other in unison, then both looked sheepish and nodded. "Yeah, but…"

Willow held up a hand. "OK. Enough with the stereo."

Relieved that there had obviously been no Dastardly Demonic Plot in need of foiling, Xander grinned a little, inclining his head. "Ladies first."

Buffy shook her head, waving a hand dismissively. "It's nothing. We were… sparring. Got a little out of hand. No big. What's your excuse?"

"Just a manly macho guy thing," Xander shrugged, remembering his agreement with Spike to keep the details to himself. "Two testosterone-infused individuals blowing off a little steam, _mano e mano_. You should see _him_," he continued, warming up to the story, "he--" He realized Willow was looking at him skeptically. "What? What's with the Eyebrow of Disbelief?"

"You beat Spike in a fight?" Willow couldn't quite picture that.

"Well, no, not exactly _beat_ him…" Xander hedged. "He'll be chewing his flowering onion on one side for awhile, though," he finished with some satisfaction.

"Very macho," Willow agreed solemnly. "If I weren't gay, I'd totally want you right now." 

Xander gave her a wry smile. "Ah, if I had a nickel for every time I'd heard _that_ one…"

Meanwhile, Buffy was studying Xander as if she'd never seen anything quite like him before, her brain having cleared enough to form a few questions. "Xander?" she asked finally. "Why aren't you at work? And why are you all… drippy?" She gestured at the growing water spots on the floor, adding, "On my carpet?"

"Because, my Californian friends," Xander answered, taking the hint and removing his dripping jacket, "it's raining. And construction workers cannot work in the rain, so they must go check on their superhero friends and drip on their carpets." He opened the front door, slung his jacket carefully over the door-handle where it could drip in peace. Willow bounced up, peering around him to see the steady sheets of water pouring from the cloud-covered sky.

"Wow, you weren't kidding," she grinned, delighted. "Buffy, come see."

Buffy levered herself up off the couch and joined them in the doorway. "Yup," she commented, after a minute. "Looks like rain."

"_Buff_-fee," Willow groaned, disgusted at her lack of enthusiasm. "It's not just rain, it's…" She trailed off, searching for words.

"_Lots_ of rain," Xander finished for her.

"Yeah," Willow agreed, as if he had said something incredibly profound. "It's weird. And cool. Like that time it snowed at Christmas."

At the mention of that particular event, Buffy felt her stomach twist. "It's not like that," she stated flatly, and headed back towards the couch, feeling weight come crashing down on her again.

Willow and Xander exchanged a confused look as he closed the door. _What was that about?_ he asked with his eyes, and she gave a tiny shrug. _I don't know._ Xander frowned, then moved to follow Buffy.

"So," he began, plopping down on the couch next to her, trying for the right mixture of cheerfulness and concern. "This place looks like a war zone. Everything OK at Casa de Summers?"

Buffy started to say yes, she was just fine, then discovered that there was a limit to how many months, days, and hours a person could spend lying to her friends. The words spilled from her mouth, independent of her brain. "Well, I was sleeping with Spike for awhile there, and last night I realized I didn't want to kill him, and Willow and I got into a fight because she thinks I should be alive and she doesn't want me to be evil and take the easy way out." She glanced at Willow. "That about sum it up?"

Willow nodded cautiously, unsure of Buffy's mood, and wondering if Xander was going to be able to take the news without spontaneously combusting. "I think so."

The prognosis on Xander wasn't good. He was sputtering helplessly, his brain having spiraled into complete overload immediately after the words "sleeping with Spike." His mouth worked soundlessly for awhile, until finally he forced out a heartfelt, "_Huh?_"

It felt so good to have it out in the open at last, no matter what Xander's reaction was, that Buffy took pity on him. "Sorry to break it to you that way, Xand," she continued, more gently. "I know it seems weird, but--"

"_Weird?_" Xander repeated in a strangled whisper, mindful of Dawn and Tara still sleeping upstairs. "No. Being possessed by a hyena was weird. Finding out your little sister was a ball of mystical energy was weird. This… _this_ is so beyond the realm of weirdness, I don't even think you can _see_ weird from here."

Willow, seeing the pain start to creep back into Buffy's face, tried to intercede, sitting on Xander's other side and putting a conciliatory hand on his knee. "It caught me by surprise, too," she told him. "But if you think about it, it makes sense, in a way. I mean, there've been signs. We just didn't want to see them."

"I know!" Xander exploded, still valiantly trying to keep his voice down. "That's the weirdest thing about it!" He slumped back against the cushions, heels of his hands pressed against his eyes as if he was trying to block out some horrific image. Which he was. "Denial was nice," he muttered, anguished. "Denial was a beautiful thing."

Buffy raised an eyebrow at Willow. Despite his initial outburst, that last comment indicated that Xander was actually scoring much lower on the Wig-O-Meter than she'd expected. "So… you're not surprised?"

He took his hands away from his eyes and met her gaze. "Buff, I love you, but I don't think at this point your taste in men will _ever_ surprise me."

Buffy smiled a little, looking down at her hands. She guessed she deserved that one.

Xander sighed. As utterly ax-murderer terrifying as the concept of Buffy boinking Spike was, he'd seen that shadow fall across her face way too many times in the last year or so, and he didn't want to be responsible for putting it there again. He supposed there were worse things than Buffy falling for Spike. He couldn't think of anything just at the moment, but he was sure he'd come up with something eventually. In the meantime, she needed him, and he'd just have to do his best to deal with it. 

"OK." He spread his hands out in front of him, as if to ward off the entire topic. "I'm thinking a subject change might be the way to go here. Did you say something about you two having a fight?"

"Not as much of a subject change as you think," Buffy answered, her smile turning wry. "Will was trying to tell me it's OK that I've slept with a soulless demon who might be planning to murder us all as we speak."

Xander studied her, watching the guilt and self-condemnation spread over her features. He sighed again. He couldn't believe he was about to say this, but… "You know I'm not exactly a big Spike groupie," he began slowly. "But… I think we might have been… in some ways, anyway… a little wrong about him."

Xander doubted Buffy was even aware of the desperate hope that brightened her eyes, or the way her breath caught in her throat. It hurt his heart to see it, and he knew that no matter what he and Spike had agreed to, and no matter how he felt about the two of them, he had to tell her. "I followed Spike tonight, to keep an eye on him," he explained. "He went to a bar, drank enough whiskey to make me sick just thinking about it, and met this woman." He saw jealousy spark behind the hope, and hurried to finish. "Long story short, she hit on him, and he turned her down. I'm not sure, but I think she even knew he was a vampire, and he still said no. Even left her with cab fare."

"Did he know you were there?" Buffy asked, wondering distantly why her voice sounded so hoarse. _It's about instinct_, she remembered telling him. _Something you do without thinking. Without expecting anything in return._

Xander shook his head. "I think we can all agree that Spike is Confrontation Guy. If he'd known I was there, he wouldn't have just left me alone."

For a long moment, none of them spoke, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Willow took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Whoa." Even given her earlier conversation with Spike, it was still more than she'd expected.

"Yeah," Xander agreed quietly. "Kind of tears the fabric of your reality a little, doesn't it?" They both looked at Buffy, but she only sat there without moving, her eyes bright again with unshed tears.

Buffy, for her part, felt as if something was slowly tearing loose inside of her, and she wasn't sure if she should cling to it or let it go.

"Buffy?" Willow offered tentatively, as a thought occurred to her. "It's your decision, but… I just realized something. If we've been wrong about Spike… and if he's been fighting this all this time, alone…" She trailed off, unsure how to finish without putting pressure on her friend.

Even without the conclusion, the words hit Buffy like Olaf's hammer. Her eyes darted up to meet Willow's, then Xander's. What she saw there was something she'd almost forgotten--concern, yes, and still a little frustration on Xander's part, but also overwhelming love. Support. She felt whatever it was inside her tear loose a little more, and her eyes overflowed.

"I have to go," she blurted suddenly, standing up with none of her usual grace. Willow and Xander stood with her, and Xander grabbed her arm before she could make it halfway to the door.

"Take a coat, it's raining," he told her, while Willow rummaged in the closet. She emerged with a somewhat dusty raincoat, and held it out to Buffy.

"Have you got an umbrella?"

Buffy shook her head. "I'll be OK." Her heart was pounding, and for a second she just stared at her friends, panic licking at her throat.

"What're you going to tell him?" Willow couldn't help asking.

Buffy laughed a little, the tinge of hysteria returning. "I don't know." Then she smiled shakily at them. "I…" She couldn't find the words. "Thanks," she said finally, lamely. Their encouraging smiles gave her just enough courage to duck out the door and into the rain.

It wasn't until she was outside, hurrying along with the rain plastering her hair to her head, that she remembered she had no idea just exactly what she was going to do.

-----------------------------

Halfrek, on the other hand, had a very specific plan. Her failure with Dawn had been nagging at her for months, and finally she'd realized a return to Sunnydale was a necessity to salve her pride. Another quick glance at her watch told her it was time. She'd decided to go for the dramatic entrance, to make up a little for her less-than-dramatic exit several months before. She snapped her fingers--not really necessary, but she felt it added a certain style--and appeared in a puff of smoke on the lower floor of Spike's crypt.

"Hello, William." He didn't appear to have moved since she'd left him earlier.

He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, staring at the wall. Ordinarily he supposed her appearance would have made his bad day worse, only on this particular occasion, that was impossible. So all he could muster up was a kind of tired hostility. "What do you want?"

"I want to help you, of course," she told him, in much the same tone Buffy had used on him not too long ago.

"You've helped me plenty, _Cecily_," he returned, and felt the first stirrings of anger.

"Have I?" She preened a little. Spike remembered she'd never been big with the sarcasm. Or with the brains in general, come to think of it.

"Oh, yeah," he continued, swinging his legs around to the edge of the bed. "If you hadn't been such a bitch to me all those years ago, I wouldn't have met Dru, and she wouldn't have turned me, and I wouldn't have had this glorious opportunity to fall in love with bloody _Slayer_." He swung a fist into the wall on the last word, welcoming the pain. 

Halfrek liked to think that, over the years, she'd perfected the sympathetic look. "I hear Angelus had his soul bound to him."

Rage flashed through him, white-hot, and before she could blink, he had his hand wrapped around her throat. "Mention that name again and I'll pull that damned pendant off right through your neck."

Her eyes widened a little, but she regained control quickly. "All right, William, no need for violence," she managed hoarsely.

He released her with a jerk. "Stop calling me that. The William you knew is dead. And a good thing, too." He turned his back on her. "How did you know?" he asked after a moment.

"It's all anyone can talk about," she replied, sounding surprised. "Or have you forgotten how quickly gossip moves in the demon world?" She looked at him pityingly. "Oh, Spike." She gave his name just a hint of careful emphasis. "Have you been away for so long you're forgetting the rules already?"

That stung him, she could tell. He whirled back around. "Why are you here?"

She answered his question with one of her own. "Why didn't you kill me?"

It was the last thing he'd expected. He blinked at her for a second, taken aback.

"You killed everyone else, with those awful spikes," she continued, moving a little closer to him, a hint of her highbrow accent returning. "Why didn't you kill me?"

On any other day, he would have at least lied, and quite possibly made the question moot by just killing her right then. But today, he was too sodding tired. "I wanted you to know what it felt like to be alone," he told her in a low voice.

A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows. She'd obviously been expecting a more flattering answer. Well, he'd devoted some of the most embarrassing moments of his life to flattering her, and figured that was enough to last him roughly through eternity. "Well…" He could see her trying to regroup, forcing cheerfulness. "I can't really agree with your reasoning, but I suppose I do owe you--if you'd killed me then, I'd never have found the job satisfaction I have now."

He sighed, tired of the bullshit. "What are you trying to say, Cecily?"

She smiled at him. "I'm offering you something. A gift, if you like."

_Oh, God._ "What?" he asked warily. If she said she was offering herself, he swore on Dru's grave that he'd snap and kill them both.

Her smile widened, and she laid a hand on his arm. "A wish."

He groaned and rolled his eyes. "Surely you don't think I'll fall for that. Demons aren't supposed to grant wishes for other demons."

She shrugged. "You're a special case. A… fence-sitter," she finished, after searching for the right word. "D'Hoffryn has agreed to make an exception."

He had to admit, that was intriguing. It would be nice to get _something_ in return for three years of humiliation and suffering. But he wasn't about to tip his hand so easily. "What could you give me that I can't get for myself?" He spread his arms wide, mockingly. "The chip's out. The world is my oyster. What could I possibly want?"

Halfrek paused just long enough to make him curious, then said simply, "To forget."

And "intriguing" got a rapid upgrade to "almost too good to be true." He considered it for a moment, studying her. "So I'd forget her, and she'd forget me, and I'd be… free again?"

Halfrek nodded. "You could stay here, or I could take you somewhere else--Prague, London, anywhere you want."

Spike could practically taste it: the blood warm and rich in his mouth, the surge of power, the recklessness and glory and desperate energy. No little girl staring up at him with those big, trusting brown eyes; no sneers and punches from the rest of the demons; and most of all, no tiny, blonde, fascinating Slayer to rip his heart out and dance a jig on it with those ridiculous shoes she insisted on wearing. Of course he knew Halfrek would be doing it for her own reasons, but he didn't think he necessarily cared what those were. After all, if she could rid him of this nasty conscience rash he seemed to be developing of late, what would it matter?

Still, he didn't like the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes, didn't like the feeling that she knew he was interested. She just kept smiling at him, and he fought to keep his poker face.

"It would be just like none of this ever happened," she whispered, staring up into his eyes.

As soon as she said it, his mind was suddenly flooded with memories: playing gin with Dawn, Willow's smile from the day before, Harris' apology later that night, the sudden grin that split Buffy's face when she got in a particularly good takedown, the little smile she couldn't quite hide after he'd seduced her into having sex on her kitchen floor, even the image that was burned into his brain of the terrible-beautiful swan-dive that had ended his world for one hundred and forty-seven days. _Like none of this ever happened_.

He found that the thought of forgetting hurt almost as much as the remembering.

__

Is this what it's going to be like? he raged inwardly, frustrated. _The woman last night was bad enough. Am I going to have to choose every bleeding day?_

He had the uneasy feeling that the answer was yes.

Halfrek was still waiting patiently for his answer, sure of her victory. He focused on her again, gave her a hint of a smile.

"All right," he whispered back. "I wish…" He paused, lowered his voice even more. She leaned forward, and he murmured in her ear. "I wish… that you'd get the hell out of my crypt before I drag you out, piece by piece."

The mixture of insult, shock, and disappointment on her face brought him the first sliver of joy he'd felt in a long time. "But…" she protested weakly.

"I mean it, pet," he continued with dangerous cheer. "It's been a couple of days since I killed anything, and if you want to know the truth, I'm getting just a little bit antsy." He flexed his hands suggestively.

"But…" she repeated, scrabbling to gain back the ground she'd lost. "A vampire loving the Slayer? That's just _wrong_!"

He simply shrugged, grinned at her. "What can I tell you, luv? I'm a rebel."

"You…" She wracked her brain, but she couldn't find an answer for that one. Spike clucked his tongue.

"Y'know," he went on meditatively, hooking his thumbs in his pockets, "it used to be that being a vengeance demon _meant_ something, but I guess they're just letting _anyone_ in these days, aren't they? Even brainless society chits with no talent and no vision who wish a few boils on a man and think it makes them the second coming of Hecate." He shook his head. "Sad, really."

"Fine," she huffed, turning a rather unusual shade of red, her demon visage creeping back over her human face. "I try to do you a favor, out of the goodness of my heart, and--"

He was on her in an instant, grabbing her shoulders. "The goodness of your heart? You don't have either of those things, Cecily, and we both know it." He shook her, hard, then threw her back a few steps. "Get out. Come near me again, and I'll kill you." She started to speak, but he held up a hand. "You can sod off, and live, or keep yammering at me, and die. Your choice, pet."

Halfrek blinked and turned even redder. He wondered idly what the chances were of her exploding. Too much to hope for, he guessed.

She was spluttering. "I… you…what…" While he was still trying to decide if that counted as yammering, she gave a final indignant, frustrated screech, snapped her fingers, and disappeared.

Spike felt a strange tickling in the back of his throat, and when he opened his mouth, he discovered it was a laugh. He gave the bedside table a cheerful kick. _Damn, that felt good._ He surveyed the room appraisingly. Not much to it, really. Anything he cared about would easily fit in his DeSoto.

It was becoming painfully obvious that he couldn't get out of this. Maybe it was time he got into it.

__

Change of scene wouldn't be so bad, he thought to himself. _Not going to be helping the bloody helpless or anything like that, but there are enough demons around to keep me busy for awhile before I have to start on the humans_. Buffy didn't love him, that was clear, and never would, and he figured three years was just about long enough to be beating his head against that particular wall. She'd made her choice. Now he wanted his own answers, ones that weren't all wrapped up in her, in what she'd think, in how she felt. The Little Bit might shed a few tears over his going, but she'd be all right, and he could drop in on her from time to time, without Buffy knowing.

All in all, it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

He hauled a battered suitcase out from under his bed, threw it open, and started packing.

TBC

See, much faster this time! : )


	9. Nine

Nevermore, you're welcome to steal my line, but only if it means you'll be writing stuff here again! : )

--------------------------------------

When Buffy arrived at Spike's crypt--cold, bedraggled, and terrified--she noticed three things: first, Spike was outside. During the day. Moving back and forth between his crypt and that black boat he drove, his arms full of something she couldn't make out, but was probably either illegal or dangerous. She glanced up at the sky. All right, so the cloud cover was pretty dense, but if he got caught by a drive-by sunbeam after all he'd put her through, she was fairly sure she was going to have to find a way of resurrecting him so she could have the satisfaction of dusting him herself.

The second thing she noticed was that he was singing to himself. And not very well, either. She'd spent just enough time with Giles to recognize it as a Rolling Stones tune. "I said yeah… oh yeah… oh yeah…" Spike crooned, tossing whatever he was carrying into the trunk. "You'll never make a saint of me…" He headed back inside.

The fact that he was singing in the first place, not to mention his choice of music, was enough to startle a giggle out of her. And then, as she drew closer, she noticed the third thing: the bundle he'd been carrying was a duffel bag. And there were a few more in the trunk beside it. She thought she could identify a few of the shapes inside them--books, weapons, alcohol bottles. Spike Necessities. Her heart began to pound. And when he came back outside lugging a tattered suitcase, she suddenly found she couldn't breathe.

He'd sensed her, of course, and even though he'd refused to look at her, the knowledge that she was nearby had been enough to knock quite the hole into whatever enthusiasm he'd managed to muster up. He tried to ignore her, hoping as he ducked back inside that maybe she'd give up on torturing him and just go away. No such luck, of course. When he came out into the rain again, she was standing right next to his car, far too close to ignore. Even with the rain plastering her hair to her head and an oversized raincoat wrapped around her, she was beautiful enough that he felt a stab to his heart. _Bitch_. And she was looking at him with an expression of such hurt and betrayal that he wanted immediately to make it better, whatever he'd done. 

He had to consciously focus on keeping his mouth shut, otherwise he'd have apologized to her, sorry git that he was. And he most definitely had nothing to apologize for. _I'm not the one traipsing off to L.A. for a life of hair gel and heroic martyrdom with Peaches_.

She might have noticed his face darkening with anger, but she was too busy trying to keep her heart beating through the vise that seemed to have closed around her chest.

"What are you doing?" She was pretty sure she was the one who said it, though the weak, hoarse voice certainly didn't sound like hers. She didn't think he'd actually do it, not again…

"I'm having a sodding tea party, what does it look like I'm doing?" he replied, hurt making his sarcasm even sharper than usual. "I'm leaving, sweetheart. Just a bit too much Hell in the Hellmouth for me these days." What did she expect, that he was just going to hang around and pine for her? All right, that probably _was_ what she was expecting, and with good reason, too, but his little victory over Halfrek had left the taste of power in his mouth. He wasn't anxious to let that slip away.

"Leaving?" she repeated breathlessly, the color draining from her cheeks. He just stared at her, utterly confused. She'd left him first, hadn't she?

Buffy noticed distantly that Spike was goggling at her as if she'd gone completely nuts. She'd been numb at first, but then she felt a slow burn of rage building inside her, getting hotter by the second, growing exponentially until it forced a single word from her mouth:

"No."

"_No?_" Spike echoed, incredulous.

"No." She shoved him out of the way, ignoring his halfhearted protest, and moved to the trunk, curling her fingers around the first bag she saw. "My father left." She yanked the bag out of the trunk, heaved it twenty feet and through the open door of his crypt. "Angel left." Another bag thumped beside the first. "Riley left." Another. "Giles left." Another, this one landing with a crash that gave Spike the sinking feeling he'd be heading to the liquor store sometime soon. She didn't even notice, slamming the trunk closed, grabbing him by the front of his jacket. "And _you_." She shoved him up against the side of the car, her eyes burning into his. "Are not. Leaving."

Looking down at her, he realized that even though he had no idea what she was about, some corner of him was cheering her on. He thought that he might love her most when she was like this, all fierce and commanding and take-no-prisoners. But then his pride reasserted itself, and his own temper began to boil over.

"_I'm_ not leaving? What about you? Thought you'd be halfway to L.A. by now," he sneered, curling his tongue inside his lower lip in the way that he knew drove her round the bend.

Instead of hurling back some scathing retort, though, she just looked at him blankly. "L.A.?" What the hell was he talking about? A sudden fear shot through her. "Is Angel all right?"

The name cut him, as always, but he was determined not to let her see it. "You tell me, pet. You're the one buggering off to start a glorious new life with him."

"What?" Now concern was starting to creep through the wall of anger. Had he ingested some sort of weird vampire drug? Been attacked by a hallucination demon? "What are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes, furious that she was making him say it. "I'm talking about you, prancing down here not three hours ago and sharing the happy news that you and Soul Boy are going to be spending the foreseeable future seeing which of you can bore the other more. My money's on Peaches, there, but I suppose you never know." She was still looking at him as if he were speaking a foreign language. A light clicked on suddenly in the back of his brain. Either she was suffering from some sort of Hellmouth-induced amnesia, or…

"Spike." She made an effort to speak slowly and clearly. "I was asleep three hours ago. I went home after I left you last night, and I've been there ever since. Ask Willow. Ask Xander."

That clinched it. "Halfrek," he growled menacingly. A red haze drifted across his vision as he indulged in several vivid fantasies as to what he'd do to the frizzy-haired demon if he ever got his hands on her again.

"Halfrek?" Buffy's eyes grew hard. The only thing that had stopped her from killing the so-called "justice demon" was that she was a friend of Anya's, but she was beginning to regret that decision. "You're telling me Halfrek told you I was leaving for L.A. to be with Angel?"

"She didn't just tell me about you, she _was_ you." He shook his head, scrubbing a hand through his dripping hair. "I knew there was something wrong about her… you'd never have been up so early on a weekend."

"You confused me with _Halfrek_?" she asked, incredulous. "God, do I just have _no_ personality? Why is it that whenever someone steals my body, no one can seem to tell the difference?"

"I don't think well in the morning!" Spike protested defensively. Then, grasping at straws, "I knew the difference between you and the robot, didn't I?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously. Hmm. Perhaps not the wisest topic to bring up at the moment. She took a step towards him, and he tensed immediately, ready to defend, but then she stopped and forced herself to take a deep breath. Fortunately for him, she had bigger fish to fry. 

"Why would she do that?" She concentrated on keeping her voice perfectly even.

Several answers came to mind—because she's a raving bitch put on this earth to torment me, for example, though he supposed that description could apply to Buffy, too—but he knew the main reason was simple. He shrugged. "It's her job. She looks for weaknesses, and she takes advantage of them."

"And I'm your weakness?"

Well, she didn't have to look so bloody pleased about it. "Enough with the twenty questions, luv," he muttered irritably. But still, the anger and hurt was beginning to fade under the onslaught of enormous relief, and he remembered something. And one side of his mouth quirked. "Can we go back to the bit where you're not letting me leave?"

Buffy could feel her face turning red, and she cursed the self-satisfied look in his eyes. But she stood her ground bravely, trying to muster up as much dignity as possible despite her resemblance to a drowned rat. "Well, I'm not." 

He cocked his head a little, gave her that quizzical look. "Why not?"

He seemed genuinely surprised, and she felt a pang of guilt, though she tried to ignore it. Her brain was babbling away, offering more than a few answers to his question: _Because the last time you left, I couldn't breathe right for a week. Because I like the way it makes my heart beat faster, wondering if you'll sneak up and ambush me during a patrol. Because when I'm miserable, you know when to talk and when to shut up_. _Because you get me, even though it scares the hell out of me_. All of those answers, and a hundred more, and she opened her mouth and blurted out, "Dawn."

His face fell, and though he pulled the mask of indifference down quickly, she still had time to see how deeply she'd cut him. Part of her, the running-hiding-hurting-coward part, cheered as it always did at anything that increased the distance between them. But the part that had driven her here in the rain to tell him who-knows-what--that part was frowning disapprovingly. She spared a second to wish that all the various parts of her would just get the hell together and agree on something, but she had a feeling that was too much to ask.

He shook his head, furious at himself for even the bare sliver of hope, started back inside to retrieve his bags. "She'll be fine. Don't waste my time, Slayer."

__

Shit. He was serious this time, and if she didn't say the right thing, or at least a better thing than what she'd just said, he'd leave. "Xander told me," she tried, which was as close as she could get to what she meant to say.

__

Shit. He stopped, cursing the whelp and wishing his own right hook had been just a little less inebriated--with any luck, on any other day, they'd've had to wire the boy's jaw shut, and then he wouldn't be in this position. Bad enough she'd de-fanged him; worse that she knew it. He turned back reluctantly. "Told you all about my dark night of the soulless, did he?" He clucked his tongue, sarcasm sour in his mouth. "Never send a boy to keep a man's secret."

__

Secret? "I would've thought you'd want me to know."

His mouth curved bitterly. "Why?" He threw out his arms, sending droplets flying, and began pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "So I could get the credit? Are you still singing that tune, about how I never do selfless and altruistic and heroic good deeds like you do?" He stopped pacing long enough to glare at her. "Damn right I don't. And I never will, as long as I can help it. I'll take whatever credit's due me, and more if I can." He moved a step closer, and the intensity in his eyes had her retreating a step before she caught herself. "I didn't want him to tell you because you've changed me, and I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing it." He barked a short laugh at the shock on her face. "Isn't that what every woman wants to hear? You changed me, Buffy. Before I knew you, I knew what I was. Now I don't know anything, except that I'm done letting you bloody _women_--" he spat the word like a curse--"run my unlife. Been doing it for a century and a half, now, and I'm _done_." He stared her down, fists clenched, oblivious to the driving rain. "You turned everything about me upside down, and there's not much I can do about that," he finished quietly, intently. "But I'll be the one to set it right again. And I'll do it my way."

She watched him, his eyes hot and impossibly blue in that pale face, and she realized he hadn't looked so strong, so determined, since… she couldn't remember the last time, actually. It terrified and excited her, and the excitement terrified her even more. Her heart was pounding again. She wondered if he could hear it. He met her gaze in silence for a long moment, challenging, then, when she didn't respond, shook his head in disgust and turned his back on her, striding purposefully towards his crypt.

Her heart seized, her throat closed, but she managed to croak out, "Wait!"

"No point," he tossed back over his shoulder, his steps never faltering.

Panic. For so many reasons. "Spike, _please_," she called desperately.

He couldn't help it. His feet stopped moving before he'd even had time to think about it. "Please" was not a word that fell easily from the Slayer's lips, at least not in non-orgasmic situations. So it caught at him, and he stopped. But he wouldn't look at her. "Why?" he asked simply, eyes trained on the ground, waiting for her to run away like she always did.

__

Jumping off that tower into the portal was a day at the mall compared to this, she thought with a hint of hysteria. "Because… I want you to stay," she forced out, her stomach churning and her palms beginning to sweat even under the rain. She saw his back stiffen, like she'd shot him, but he didn't take a step either forward or back. "Because we're both broken, and as totally bizarre and wrong as it might be, maybe we can help fix each other. Because this thing with us is there, even though we both wish it wasn't, and I'm tired of lying about it. And I'm tired of the angst and the arguing and the drama. I've got enough demons to fight. I don't want to fight that one anymore."

Spike was thankful that his heart didn't beat, otherwise he was pretty sure it would've been knocking a sizeable hole in his chest right about now. As it was, he hardly dared move for fear he'd break whatever spell she was apparently under.

He still wasn't moving. She was baring her soul here, goddammit, how dare he not even dignify her with a response? Especially considering he didn't even have a soul _to_ bare. _Typical_, she seethed inwardly, feeling the tears well up hot in her eyes. "You made me care about you, you bastard, even though I want to kill you about fifty times a day--including right now, by the way--and after all that, you just think you can walk away? Well, fuck that, and fuck you. It's not that easy."

Ah, _there_ was his girl. Hadn't seen much of her lately. Also, he was pretty sure he'd caught the word "care" in there amongst all the vitriol, and that crumb alone was enough to make him want to unpack his bags and redecorate his crypt for long-term tenancy. Still, he wasn't entirely certain he wanted to give up the recent burst of independence that Halfrek's visit had touched off. Though major portions of his body were babbling at him to take what he could get before she changed her mind, he needed to hear the terms. He turned to face her. "So what are you saying, pet?"

She took a deep breath. "I'm saying we try this. For real." She could feel the Grand Canyon of Fear opening up in front of her as she spoke, but she barreled on anyway. "Eyes open. You don't try to convert me to the Dark Side, and I work on giving you the benefit of the doubt."

He wondered distantly if he was dreaming, decided he didn't care if he was. "Fair enough," he replied quietly.

She nodded jerkily, looking as green around the gills as he felt. "OK." Then her eyes grew serious. "I'd like to say I trusted you before Xander told me about the bar, but we both know I don't get that luxury." He nodded back, understanding. "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, because of what you did--or didn't do--last night. But if I'm wrong about you, I'll kill you. You have to know that."

He met her eyes evenly. "If I change my mind, you'll know it. That's all I can promise."

"Fair enough," she echoed him, and they both stood there in silence for a second, just looking nervously at each other. Spike felt as if someone had just offered him a lifetime membership to the Sunnydale Blood Bank, and he wasn't sure quite how to deal with it. Vampires were built to handle pain, fury, even exhilaration, but not joy. He didn't have the first clue what to do with so much happiness pouring through him, like a flood, like a tidal wave, swamping him. He panicked. Thoroughly.

"I'm still going to do things my way," he told her, defensive, as if she'd just suggested otherwise.

She blinked, surprised. "OK."

"I'm not going to get a job and become a useful member of society."

"OK."

"I'm not going to parade around in a sodding white hat."

That mental image, especially coupled with the profound seriousness of his tone, was enough to make her mouth quirk up on one side. "Spike."

"What?"

"Shut up."

He furrowed his brow, mouth half-open, insulted, until a thought occurred to him. And then he smiled at her: a slow, dangerous, suggestive smirk that sent a flash of heat straight down to her toes.

"Make me."

She couldn't have said afterwards exactly who jumped who, she just knew that suddenly his mouth was on hers and she was wrapped around him so tightly she could feel even his tiniest muscles flexing and every nerve in her body was sparking like a firecracker_. Too long, too long_, she kept repeating in her mind, and Spike's brain was swimming as he realized that _this_ was what she tasted like when there were no barriers, no hesitations, and a desperation to remember instead of to forget. Her hands clutched at his arms, and she felt a primal satisfaction knowing she'd leave marks on the pale skin. "Mine," she whispered fiercely into his mouth, and he smiled and growled his agreement. 

Soaked to the skin, they staggered together towards the door of the crypt, never breaking contact, laughing through kisses as they stumbled over Spike's abused duffel bags. They barely managed to shove the heavy door closed before they were tearing each other's clothes off.

"Bed," Spike muttered hoarsely as she tossed his precious duster aside and began tugging impatiently on his shirt. He pressed kisses along her collarbone as he stripped off the heavy raincoat.

"Too… ohhh… far," she sighed back, her breath catching as he hit a particularly responsive spot. "Now." She gave up on the buttons, tore the shirt, and started in on his belt buckle.

He laughed low in his throat, and picked her up, carrying her a few feet to the mattress lying on the floor of the crypt. He'd intended to try stuffing it in the DeSoto to take with him to parts unknown, but seeing how matters stood at the moment, he thought he'd save that experiment for later.

She looked around for a second, surprised at the sudden appearance of his bed, then shrugged. "Convenient," she murmured appreciatively, and dove back into the task of peeling off his wet jeans.

"I thought so," he replied, grinning against her skin, and then they were naked, and she was touching him, and all thinking became suddenly out of the question.

------------------------

Sorry, kreepyk, I'm not big with the smut--I read it, just don't feel comfortable writing it--but there's a little implied nookie, anyway. : ) Thanks for the worship, though--it's much appreciated!

TBC… just a little epilogue on the way!


	10. Ten

A/N: Well, this epilogue grew into a mini-chapter in its own right, and was giving me fits, so very heartfelt thanks to Nevermore for the emergency beta--your comments were, as always, invaluable.

-----------------------------------

            Afterwards, she lay curled against him, hair clinging damply to his shoulder, drifting.  They could still hear rain pattering steadily on the stone roof.  He'd managed to get up long enough to dig a blanket out of his discarded luggage, and now he was just lying there, listening to her breathe, wondering if he could convince her to just stake him right now so he could go out on a high note.  _Not likely, he realized, and then moved on to wondering just what it said about their relationship that her not wanting to kill him was a new development._

            Buffy had a feeling that she was still going to have some major recoil to deal with from this whole series of events, but for now she was content to just stay in this unlikely haven and enjoy the benefits of having finally made a decision.  "Well," she murmured in his ear, sending shivers down his spine, "the world didn't end."

            "Mmm," Spike agreed indistinctly.  "Always a good sign in these parts."

She sighed lazily, and raised her head just enough to check her watch.  "I think that's a record."

            "Doubt it," he replied, fondly remembering some of their multi-hour marathons.

            She giggled, and swatted his shoulder.  "Not _that, you moron."_

            "Then what?"  There were other kinds of records now?

            "Twenty minutes.  That's the longest we've ever gone without fighting after…"  She felt her cheeks growing hot, told herself wryly that if she could _do it, she should probably be able to __say it.  "After sex."_

            He shrugged, just enough to joggle her head slightly.  "Only because we haven't been talking.  Give us time, love, we're out of practice."

            She smiled.  "I'm not worried."  Then she added, yawning, "Too bad there'll probably never be any kind of arguing shortage.  'Cause you and I'd get rich."

            "Awfully mercenary of you, Slayer," he noted approvingly.  "I'm proud of you."  He settled a hand underneath his head, and drew her closer with his other arm, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that this could all explode at any second.  Still, he planned to take full advantage of it while he could, no matter how surreal it seemed.

            "Been hanging out with Anya too much."  She refused to analyze the shiver of excitement that spiraled into her stomach as he tightened his hold on her.  She glanced around, her eyes falling on a duffel bag that seemed to have sprung a leak.  Now that she thought of it, there did seem to be a distinct alcohol edge to the smell of rain and sex that permeated the room.  Hmm.  "I think I might've spilled some of your puke-inducing substances."

            "Smashed them beyond all recognition, more like.  There was a bottle of triple-cask Balvenie in there, too."  Ordinarily, he'd've been mourning the loss, but considering the circumstances, he couldn't really find it in himself to care.  Not that he wasn't going to milk this for whatever it was worth.

            "Triple-who Bal-what-ie?"

            He gave a long-suffering sigh.  "You're a right Philistine, you know that?  You college birds think it's all Monarch and Busch Light.  Wouldn't recognize good alcohol if it bit you on the ass."

            "I've been bitten plenty by your alcohol, thanks.  Besides, you probably just stole it anyway."

            He waved the hand that was resting on her waist.  "Beside the point.  You still owe me."  Then, his hand drifting higher and a lascivious grin sliding across his face, "I have a few ideas for how you can repay me, though…"

            "You have _one idea," she scoffed, pushing his hand away.  "The same idea you __always have."_

            The grin didn't waver.  "Don't hear you complaining…"  Well, she certainly intended to.  Definitely.  Just as soon as he stopped kissing her.

            Only problem was, he didn't stop.  He just kept on kissing her, and now there were other body parts involved as well, and as she lay there, tangled up with him, listening to the rain drumming on the roof, feeling his cool skin against hers, she could feel whatever had been tearing loose inside her earlier dangling by a thread.  One more kiss, one more caress, and she'd be lost.  She pulled back before her brain could shut down completely.  

            Spike looked at her, and she could see the questions and hurt beginning behind the haze of lust in his eyes.  Clearly, he thought this was the preface to another of her dramatic exits.  She wanted to reassure him, but as usual, she struggled with the words.

            "This… it's so _much," she said finally, softly.  She swallowed, looked down, then back up at him.  "It scares me."_

            He breathed a mental sigh of relief that she seemed to be showing no sign of the patented Buffy Summers Insult and Exeunt, but the mixture of fear and defiance in her expression caught him off guard.  "Me too," he told her with a kind of determined honesty, momentarily stripped of his defenses.

            Her eyes were huge.  "Things could suck tomorrow."

            He nodded.  "Or later today.  Or even five minutes from now."  Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't quite resist the smirk.  "Well, maybe _twenty-five minutes from now," he amended, and was rewarded with a blush and a tiny smile.  __I can still make her smile.  There's some hope, then.  "No use trying to predict the future, love.  You do what you need to do, and deal with the consequences as they come."_

            She pouted a little.  "I like to plan.  I'm a planner."

            "And I like to enjoy the ride."  The double-entendre was there, of course--he was, after all, _him--but she could see that he meant it.  The ridiculousness of it all suddenly hit her, and she began to laugh._

            "It's so… _wrong," she managed, between gusts of laughter.  "We're nothing alike, we've tried to kill each other, we'll never go a day without arguing, and somehow, still, we… __balance.  How is that?"  She shook her head, totally at a loss._

            Spike just watched her laugh, this tangled, infinitely complex web of dark and light who was the Slayer, who was Buffy, and thought about the exquisite pain of loving her.  She looked whole for the first time in a long time.  It occurred to him that he might have a little bit to do with that.  He grinned into her tired/amused eyes.

            "Fate's a bitch, pet.  I think she and Love must be sisters."

            His tepid attempt at armchair--or mattress--philosophy only made her laugh harder.  She flapped one hand helplessly, though he knew better than to believe she was ever helpless.  "Stop… with the… talking…  God, I'm so sick of talking…"

            Well, if that wasn't an invitation, he didn't know what was.  Her laugh slid into a sigh as his mouth moved along her jawline, down her throat, where he could feel the blood pumping beneath her skin.  Even though he'd done it a hundred times, it still drove him to the edge of control, and suddenly he felt her stiffen under him.  She put one hand on his shoulder, pushing him back.  She looked steadily into his eyes for a moment before slowly, deliberately turning her head to the side.

            Offering.

            Spike's mouth went dry, and his borrowed blood heated with the heady combination of lust and hunger and adrenaline.  She stared at the wall, and he could hear her heart pounding, see her pulse racing.  He found he couldn't move.

_What the fuck are you doing?_  Buffy's brain was screaming at her, while her Slayer instincts shifted into overdrive, crying out for her to grab the nearest stake and finish this.  But whatever anchor she'd been clinging to was gone, and she found herself overwhelmed with the irrational need to give him something, to prove something to him, to atone somehow for all the ways she'd been wrong.  In some indefinable way, the situation, their relationship, seemed to call for something extreme, and this was the most extreme thing she could imagine, lying there waiting for him to drink the blood that was rushing frantically in her veins.  

Spike just kept staring at her, smelling her fear and uncertainty, floored by this profound statement of trust from the woman who swore she'd never trust him.  _Never does anything halfway, does she?_ he thought fuzzily.  Not just accepting the demon in him, but inviting it, though it obviously shook her to her core.  No one, not even Dru with her dark, deadly kiss of salvation, had ever offered him a gift like that.  He wanted to give her something in return, give her everything, to atone for everything he'd done wrong in his desperate, hopeless pursuit of her.  But he wanted to take, too, and the conflict held him utterly still, teetering on the brink.

Finally, when he didn't move, she snaked a hand up his arm, pulled his head down to her neck.  And shuddered as he bit down.  With blunt, human teeth.

            "I would've…" she whispered, shaking with tension, wondering why there were suddenly tears in her eyes.

            "I know," he soothed, his mind and body and heart all swimming with the effort of refusing her.  He honestly hadn't had any idea what he was going to do until she pulled him down to her, and then he'd remembered like a bolt of lightning: balance, she'd said.  They balanced.  So he'd chosen the only way he could think of to acknowledge her nature as she'd acknowledged his.  And despite his firm conviction that he held the all-time world record for Most Well-Intentioned Actions that Got Completely Bollocksed Up, he had a feeling as she kissed him that this one time, anyway, he'd made the right decision.  But the strain had shattered his control, and he channeled all the heat and hunger into touching her, wanting to be closer, always closer…

            She felt his hands growing more insistent, gripping harder, but the tears were clogging the back of her throat now.  She pulled back again, and his eyes were naked as he choked out a breathless laugh.

            "Stop-and-go traffic's hell on the engine, luv," he managed hoarsely.

            She smiled, and if she'd dared put a name to what wrapped itself around her heart at that moment, she might have called it love.  "I want to show you something."

            He raised an eyebrow.  His body was pretty much insisting on "immediately if not sooner," but still…  _Never let it be said that William the Bloody turned down a sex game.  "All right."_

            She flipped him over on his back with practiced ease, straddling him, sending another shot of lust straight to his groin.  He grinned in anticipation, distantly trying to remember where he'd packed the handcuffs.  But she didn't appear to need any props--just leaned down until he could feel her warm breath on his ear.

            "I love what we do," she told him, beginning a small trail of feather-light kisses down his neck.  "I love what you've shown me."  Her mouth drifted along his shoulder, then his chest, punctuating each word.  "But I wanted to show you something I know…"  She stopped, and looked up at him.  The cocky self-assurance on his face was slowly melting into a kind of bemused fear.  They were in uncharted territory now.  She cupped a hand to his cheek, wondering again at how such a powerful creature could look so vulnerable, and leaned down till her mouth was centimeters from his.  "This… it doesn't always have to hurt."

            And she kissed him, gently but thoroughly, trying to pour into it everything she wasn't brave enough to admit to herself yet, much less to him.  Spike wasn't sure whether he was tasting her tears or his as he speculated on the real possibility of dying of this strange combination of happiness and terror.  _Not a bad way to go, he reflected distantly, and held her tighter as outside, the rain poured from a sunny sky._

END

A/N, Part II:  Thanks to everyone who made it this far, and who came back even after the looooong hiatus.  (Just trying to be more like the show, you know.)  I hope you enjoyed it.  Your feedback has made my day on any number of occasions, so thank you for taking the time—I hate to single anyone out, because any review is awesome, but I wanted to especially thank Tigress Eve, kreepyk, Beautiful Wednesday, Lynn, Forgotten by Love, Chosen-Chick, and of course Nevermore, God of Reviews (and, in happier times, a fine and prolific fic writer himself! hint hint), not to mention anyone else who's taken the time to leave multiple reviews of not only this story but my other fics as well.  You guys keep me checking my computer obsessively at work.  And now that I'm done with this damn thing I'll have time to do more reading and hopefully return the favor, if I haven't already.  So thanks… and pray for a satisfying end to this season.  I hear Joss is at the helm again.  Have faith. : )


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